r 


THE   POEMS 

OF 

EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


THE  POEMS- 

OF 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


COLLECTED  AND   EDITED,  WITH  A  CRITICAL  INTRODUCTION 
AND   NOTES,    BY 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

AND 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1895,  BT 
STONE  &  KIMBALL 


ENGLISH 


A 


PREFACE  TO  THE  POEMS 

THE  text  of  the  poems  here  adopted  is  that  of  the 
Lorimer  Graham  copy  of  the  edition  of  1845,  re 
vised  by  marginal  corrections  in  Poe's  hand.  Inas 
much  as  Poe  revised  his  poems  repeatedly  and  with 
great  care,  and  seldom  returned  to  an  earlier  reading, 
the  claim  of  his  latest  revision  to  be  accepted  as  the 
authorized  text  seems  to  the  Editors  irresistible. 
For  poems  not  included  in  the  edition  of  1845,  the 
latest  text  published  in  Poe's  lifetime,  or,  where  an 
earlier  text  is  wanting  or  was  revised,  the  text  of 
Griswold  has  been  adopted. 

All  variant  readings  have  been  given  in  the 
NOTES.  The  Editors  have  thought  this  desirable 
partly  because  there  is  no  such  illustration  in  lit 
erature  of  the  elaboration  of  poetry  through  long- 
continued  and  minute  verbal  processes,  and  partly 
because  so  large  a  portion  of  the  verse  written  by 
Poe  perished  in  those  processes.  It  is  believed  that 
the  view  of  the  printed  sources,  here  given,  is  very 
nearly  complete;  and  to  what  they  afford  are  added 
the  variants  of  some  early  MSS.,  consisting  of  a 
large  part  of  "Tamerlane"  and  four  early  poems, 
in  Poe's  hand,  and  of  copies  of  two  other  early 
poems  in  a  contemporary  hand.  The  date  of  the 
MSS.  is,  approximately,  1829  or  earlier,  and  they 
represent  Poe's  work  after  the  publication  of  "Tarn- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  POEMS 

erlane"  in  1827.  They  were  in  the  possession  of 
L.  A.  Wilmer,  Esq.,  who  was  Poe's  companion  in 
Baltimore,  and  have  descended  in  the  Wilmer  fam 
ily  as  an  heirloom.  Two  leaves,  however,  which 
had  got  separated  from  the  rest,  had  come  into  the 
possession  of  William  Evarts  Benjamin,  Esq.  The 
Editors  desire  to  thank  the  owners  for  the  free  use 
of  these  valuable  papers. 

THE  EDITORS. 

NEW  YORK,  May  5,  1895. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS  xi 

I 
POEMS: 

^  THE  RAVEN      .............  5  *' 

^r        BRIDAL  BALLAD      ............  14   *"~ 

THE  SLEEPER   .............  16  K 

LENORE       ..............  18  «- 

.I/DREAM-LAND.    .............  20  y~ 

/       THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST  ..........  -  22  ^ 

J3?HE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA       ..........  23  ^ 

To  ZANTE    ..............  25  ^ 

SILENCE       ..............  26  i~- 

THE  COLISEUM       ............  27-K" 

HYMN     ...............  29  ^ 

ISRAFEL          ..............  30    K" 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE     ..........  32    *- 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM  ..........  34  /- 

ELDORADO   ..............  30  ^ 

EULALIE      ..............  37   ^ 

^  THE  BELLS_     .............  33  ^  ' 

ANNABEL  LEE  .............  4£     ^ 

ULALUME     ..............  44    ;. 

II 

SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN"      ........  49    ^ 


III 
INVOCATIONS: 

To  HELEN  ..............  79 

ToF  -      .............  80 

To  ONE  IN  PARADISE  ...........  81 

ToF  -  sS.  O  -  D     .........  82 

vii 


CONTENTS 

INVOCATIONS  (continued): 

A  VALENTINE 

AN  ENIGMA 

To  HELEN 

TO-       ....... 

ToM.  L.  S 

To- .     '     ] 

FOR  ANNIE 

To  MY  MOTHER    .     . 

Y 

IV 
EARLY  POEMS: 

TAMERLANE 

****••  yy 

To  SCIENCE 

AL  AARAAF       

"THE  HAPPIEST  DAY,  THE  HAPPIEST  HOUR' 
STANZAS       .... 

EVENING  STAR 

DREAMS       

^HE  LAKE:  To  —    — 
SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD 
A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM  .... 

SONG 

To  THE  RIVER  — 

To-       - 

A  DREAM     . 

ROMANCE     

FAIRY-LAND 

ALONE 

NOTES:    TOGETHER  WITH  A   COMPLETE  V\RIORUM 

TEXT  OF  THE  POEMS U1 


vni 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT 


FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  A  DAGUERREOTYPE  FORMERLY  IN 
THE  POSSESSION  OF  "STELLA" Frontispiece 

PORTRAIT  FACING  PAGE 

FROM  THE  PHOTOGRAPH  OF  A  DAGUERREOTYPE  GIVEN  BY  POE 
-TO  MRS.  WHITMAN,  FORMERLY  IN  THE  POSSESSION  OF  WIL 
LIAM  COLEMAN 143 

FACSIMILE 

FROM  THE  LORIMER  GRAHAM  COPY  (SEE  PREFACE  TO  THE 
VOLUME)  SHOWING  POE'S  ORIGINAL  CORRECTIONS  17 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

SMALL  as  is  the  body  of  Poe's  metrical  work,  rela 
tive  to  that  of  his  prose,  and  in  comparison  with 
the  amount  of  verse  written  by  any  other  American 
poet  of  his  rank  and  time,  it  has  sufficed  to  bring 
about  certain  obvious  results. ! '  First  of  all,  it  has'; 
established  him  in  the  minds  of  the  common  people, 
not  as  the  critic  or  the  tale-writer,  but  as  a  poet, 
and  as  a  poet  who,  from  their  notions  of  his  life, 
was  almost  the  last  of  those  fulfilling  old-time  tra 
ditions  of  the  character.  Since  the  date  when  "The 
Raven,"  let  us  say,  got  into  the  school-readers,  — 
and  that  was  within  five  years  after  its  appearance 
in  the  "American  Review,"  —  the  public  conception 
of  its  author  has  been  that  of  a  poet.  We  have 
found  in  the  Tales  the  fullest  expression  of  his 
genius.  These,  to  his  own  mind,  were  his  most  sig 
nificant  creations.  But  such  is  the  distinction  of 
poetry  that  its  mere  form  is  taken  by  the  people  as 
the  ranking  warrant  of  never  so  industrious  a  prose- 
writer,  if  he  is  the  author  of  a  few,  but  veritable 
songs.  This  royal  prerogative  of  verse,  in  point  of 
impression  made,  and  of  the  attribute  with  which 
its  author  is  invested,  exists  by  a  law  as  irrespective 
of  relative  mass,  and  quite  as  sure,  as  that  of  the 
"hydrostatic  paradox"  which  makes  a  thin  column 
of  water  balance  the  contents  of  an  acred  reservoir. 
Thus  it  has  resulted  that  Poe  is,  and  doubtless  al 
ways  will  be,  gazetted  as  "the  poet." 

It  may  also  be  said  of  his  verse  that  it  has  led  to 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

more  difference  of  opinion  than  that  of  our  other 
poets,  one  alone  excepted.  A  few  lyrics  —  possibly 
his  most  individual,  though  not  necessarily  his  most 
imaginative  and  essentially  poetic  —  are  those  for 
which  he  is  widely  lauded.  The  succession  has  been 
endless  of  zealots  who,  on  the  score  of  "The  Raven," 
"The  Bells,"  and  "Annabel  Lee,"  set  him  above 
poets  of  whom  they  have  read  very  little.  And  he 
has  been  the  subject  of  a  long-standing  dispute 
among  authoritative  writers  here  and  abroad,  some 
of  whom  pronounce  him  one  of  the  two,  or  at  the 
most,  three  American  poets  really  worth  attention; 
I  while  others,  of  the  philosophic  bent,  regard  his  verse 
|  as  very  primitive,  and  its  maker  as  a  ballad-monger. 
Upon  the  latter  class,  composed  of  both  realists  and 
transcendentalists,  the  host  of  sentimentalists  has 
retaliated,  and  so  a  discussion  has  gone  on  to  the 
present  day. 

,j  But  neither  zeal  nor  prejudice  can  put  aside  data, 
1  in  view  of  which  dispassionate  critics  have  for  some 
time  been  in  accord  as  to  the  nature  of  Poe's  lyrical 
genius  and  the  resultant  quality  and  value  of  the 
following  poems.  It  is  clear  that  they  are  slight 
and  few  in  number,  but  no  more  slight  and  few  than 
the  relics  of  other  poets,  ancient  and  modern,  which 
have  served  to  establish  fame.  It  is  seen  that  they 
are  largely  wrought  out  from  the  vague  conceptions 
of  the  romancer's  youth:  that  he  began  as  a  poet, 
so  far  as  he  was  anything  but  a  wanderer,  and  that, 
notwithstanding  his  avowal  that  poetry  was  his 
passion  and  not  his  purpose,  he  had  will  and  ambi 
tion  enough  to  put  in  print,  once  arid  again,  the 
germinal  verses  which  were  brought  to  such  com 
pleteness  in  after  years;  that  throughout  life  his 
expression  confined  itself  to  one  mood,  almost  to  a 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

single  key,  his  purpose  not  being  sufficiently  con 
tinuous  to  save  his  rhythmical  gift  from  prolonged 
checks  to  its  exercise;  finally,  that  the  distinctive 
feature  of  his  work  is  found  on  its  artistic  and  tech 
nical  side,  and  is  so  marked  as  to  constitute  his 
specific  addition  to  poetry,  and  to  justify  full  con 
sideration.  All,  in  fine,  must  look  upon  his  verse', 
as  small  in  amount  and  restricted  in  motive,  and  ' 
consider  his  forte  to  be  that  of  a  peculiar  melodist, 
—  the  originator  of  certain  strains  which  have  been 
effectual.  However  monotonous,  they  have  not, 
like  other  "catching"  devices,  proved  temporary 
and  wearisome,  but  have  shown  themselves  founded 
in  nature  by  still  charming  the  ear  and  holding  their 
place  in  song-J 

With  tlnsbrief  statement  of  matters  upon  which 
agreement  has  been  reached,  something  can  be  said 
in  detail.  Poe  may  not  have  "lisped  in  numbers," 
but  he  certainly  began  as  a  verse-maker  when  he 
began  to  write  at  all,  as  is  the  way  of  those  who 
have  even  the  rhymester's  gift.  His  early_meas^ 
ures  were  nebulous  in  Tnea.m'ng  and  half -moulded  in 
form,  yet  his  first  three  books  were  made  up  of  such 
alone.  Between  the  volume  of  1831  and  that  of 
1845,  an  industrious  professional  term,  his  work  as 
a  poet  was  mainly  confined  to  the  development  of 
finished  lyrics  from  the  germs  contained  in  those 
first  vague  utterances.  Meanwhile  his  fresh  inven 
tion  concerned  itself  with  prose.  A  true  poet  is  an. 
idealist;  the  great  one,  an  idealist  taking  flight  from 
the  vantage-ground  of  truth  and  reason.  Poe  was 
at  least  the  former,  and  it  would  appear  that  his 
metrical  faculty  suffered,  as  has  just  been  said, 
checks  to  its  exercise  rather  than  an  arrest  of  de 
velopment.  Even  his  would-be  realistic  tales 

xv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

adventure  are  bizarre  in  motive  and  treatment; 
they  are  not  cast  in  true  naturalism.  Setting  these 
aside,  however,  the  existence  of  "Ligeia,"  "Usher," 
"Shadow,"  "Arnheim,"  and  the  like,  which  fairly 
may  be  regarded  as  prose  poems,  forbids  us  wholly 
to  deprecate  his  halt  as  a  verse-maker,  and  speaks 
for  the  public  recognition  of  him  chiefly  in  his  capac 
ity  as  a  poet.  That  the  advance  of  his  lyrical 
faculty  kept  pace  with,  and  was  aided  by,  his  prose 
as  a  running-mate,  is  shown  by  the  difference  be 
tween  "A  Paean,"  1831,  and  the  "Lenore"  of  1845; 
or  between  almost  any  poem,  save  the  beauteous 
"Israfel,"  in  the  early  volumes,  and  "The  Haunted 
Palace"  of  1839.  After  fourteen  years  of  journalism 
and  fiction,  he  began,  with  "The  Raven,"  a  final 
series  of  poems,  showing  the  mastery  of  finish  and 
original  invention  at  which  he  had  arrived,  and 
which  he  oossessed  to  the  last  year  of  his  general 
decline. 

Without  doubt,  a  distinctive  melody  is  the  ele 
ment  in  Poe's  verse  that  first  and  last  has  told  on 

|  every  class  of  readers,  —  a  rhythmical  effect  which, 

I  be  it  of  much  or  little  worth,  was  its  author's  own; 
and  to  add  even  one  constituent  to  the  resources 
of  an  art  is  what  few  succeed  in  doing.  He  gained 
hints  from  other  poets  toward  this  contribution,  but 
the  tiinbre  of  his  own  voice  was  required  for  that 
peculiar  music  reinforced  by  the  correlative  refrain 
and  repetend;  a  melody,  but  a  monody  as  well, 
limited  almost  to  the  vibratory  recurrence  of  a  single 
and  typical  emotion,  yet  no  more  palling  on  the 

/ear  than  palls  the  constant  sound  of  a  falling  stream. 

'  It  haunted  rather  than  irked  the  senses;  so  that  the 
poet  was  recognized  by  it,  —  as  Melmoth  the  Wan- 
dexer  by  the  one  delicious  strain  heard  wherever  he 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

approached.  This  brought  him,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  slight  of  many  compeers,  and  for  this  the  wisest 
of  them  spoke  of  him  as  the  "jingle-man."  Yet 
there  is  more  than  this,  one  may  well  conceive,  in  his 
station  as  a  poet. 

Not  a  few,  whose  border  line  between  high  think 
ing  and  plain  moralizing  is  often  crossed,  have  been 
inclined  to  leave  him  out  of  the  counting.  One  of 
them,  extolling  Bryant  and  Emerson,  declares  that 
Poe,  as  an  American  poet,  is  "nowhere."  An  orator 
of  the  Bryant  centenary  has  named  a  sextet  of  our 
national  singers,  in  which  the  author  of  "The  Raven" 
is  not  included.  There  is  an  irrepressible  conflict 
between  the  r  ilodists  and  the  intuitionists.  Against 
this  down-east  verdict,  the  belief  of  foreign  judges 
has  been  that  something  worth  while  was  gained  by 
him  for  English  poetry.  It  has  been  stated  that 
Tennyson  thought  him  the  most  remarkable  poet  the 
United  States  had  produced,  and  "not  unworthy  to 
stand  beside  Catullus,  the  most  melodious  of  the 
Latins,  and  Heine,  the  most  tuneful  of  the  Germans." 
\  It  would  be  easy  to  trace  the  effect  of  his  tone  upon 
various  minor  lyrists  of  England  and  France,  and 
indirectly  upon  the  greater  ones.  There  were  lessons 
to  be  learned,  if  only  on  the  technical  side,  from  his 
rhythm  and  consonance.  In  fact,  something  is  al 
ways  to  be  caught  by  the  greater  artists  from  the 
humblest  artisans,  as  from  the  folk-song  of  any  race 
or  country. 

But  is  it  all  a  matter  of  technique?  Are  the  few 
numbers  of  Poe's  entire  repertory  simply  "literary 
feats"?  Is  "Annabel  Lee"  merely  "sounding  brass 
or  a  tinkling  cymbal" ?  Is  its  author  fairly  classed, 
by  one  who  admits  that  we  need  all  instruments  "in 
the  perfect  orchestra,"  as  "a  tinkling  triangle  among 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

the  rest"?  The  epithets  cited  are  specimens  of 
many  indicating  the  mood,  and  what  underlies  the 
mood,  of  those  with  whom  he  is  antipathetic.  Our 
question  involves  the  mysterious  sympathies  of  sound 
and  sense  in  lyrical  poetry,  and  these  involve  the 
secret  of  all  speech  itself.  Those  who  regard  Poe 
•v  as  only  "a  verbal  poet"  may  be  assured  that  the  fit 
arbiter  is  the  universalist.  It  is  not  given  to  all  art's 
factors  to  be  of  equal  worth  or  import.  The  view 
of  the  intellectualists,  with  their  disdain  for  tech 
nical  beauty,  is  limited;  no  doubt  the  view  of  Poe  was 
limited,  —  most  often,  evidently,  by  the  impatience 
of  a  non-conformist,  for  he  had  the  critical  sense 
in  which  Emerson,  for  instance,  was  deficient;  and 
the  limitations  on  both  sides  were  greater  for  the 
unconsciousness  of  both  that  they  existed.  It  is 
worth  noting  that  when  a  bard  like  Emerson  "let 
himself  go,"  he  was  more  spontaneous,  and  as  a  re- 
i  f  suit  more  finely  lyrical,  than  Poe.  On  the  other 
.  \  i  .^  hand,  Poe's  most  imaginative  numbers  have  a  rare 
— H— subtlety  of  thought,  and  depend  least  upon  his 
mechanism. 

Those  persons  who,  if  they  care  a  little  for  the 
piano,  know  no  touch  of  it,  fail  to  understand  the 
sensations  excited  in  others  by  the  personal  mas 
tery  of  a  virtuoso  over  that  artificial  instrument. 
Quite  as  natural  is  the  honest  belief  of  a  superior 
man  who  applies  to  Poe's  poetry  the  epithet  "value 
less."  Some  of  it,  for  reasons  not  at  all  enigmatical 
to  the  minstrel  tribe,  is  of  extreme  suggestiveness 
and  value.  Certain  pieces  are  likely  to  outlast  in 
common  repute  nineteen-twentieths  of  our  spirited 
modern  fiction,  while  others,  though  really  of  a  higher 
grade,  may  be  cherished  in  the  regard  of  only  the 
elect  few.  Both  these  classes  are  of  a  lyrical  order, 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

either  composed  or  rewritten  in  his  manhood,  and 
undeniably  obtaining  their  audience  through  the 
charm  of  that  music  absent  for  the  most  part  from 
his  ambitious  early  verse.  There  is  no  better  proof 
of  his  natural  force  and  originality,  than  his  accept 
ance  of  the  fact  that  all  tracks  are  not  for  all  runners 
who  wear  winged  sandals.  Clive  Newcome  felt  it 
due  to  himself  to  put  on  canvas  his  "Battle  of  As- 
saye,"  which  so  strangely  failed  of  Academic  honors, 
and  the  eminent  Mr.  Gandish,  of  Soho,  kept  on 
painting  "Boadiceas"  and  "Alfreds"  to  his  dying 
day.  Our  young  poet,  as  well,  tried  his  hand  once 
and  again  at  the  making  of  a  long  romantic  poem, 
and,  later,  in  the  production  of  a  blank-verse  drama, 
but  had  the  literary  good  sense,  whatsoever  his  ill- 
judgment  in  life,  —  and  the  two  often  go  together  in 
a  man  of  genius,  —  to  perceive  for  himself  that  the 
result  was  something  "labored,"  and  not  worth  the 
labor  except  for  the  experience  and  practice;  that 
"Tamerlane,"  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  and  "Politian"  were  the 
outcome  of  perseverance,  and  not  written  with  the 
zest  that  ministers  to  one  doing  what  he  is  born  to 
do.  Of  course  it  takes  less  will-power  to  refrain 
than  to  persist;  but  it  speaks  well  for  one's  percep 
tion,  and  for  his  modesty,  when  he  ceases  to  attempt 
things  for  which  he  has  no  vocation,  instead  of  mas 
tering  them  because  they  are  dimensional  and  be 
cause  others  have  gained  fame  thereby.  In  "Aurora 
Leigh"  it  is  counted  "strange  .  .  .  that  nearly  all 
young  poets  should  write  old  !"  It  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  an  artist  began  in  any  other  way.  A 
young  poet  is  no  different  from  the  young  sculptor 
or  painter,  who  first  is  set  to  copy  from  accepted 
models,  save  that  he  gropes  his  way  as  his  own 
master  and  in  his  own  studio,  —  there  being  as  yet, 

xix 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

and  happily,  no  class  or  school  for  poets:  their 
Academy  is  the  world's  book  of  song.  Poe,  grow 
ing  up  under  the  full  romantic  stress,  at  the  end  of 
the  Georgian  period,  and  by  temperament  himself 
as  much  of  a  romancer  as  Byron  or  Moore,  inevita 
bly  aped  the  manner  and  copied  the  structure  of 
poems  he  must  have  known  by  heart.  So  we  have 
"Tamerlane,"  a  manifest  adumbration  of  "The 
Giaour,"  and  "Al  Aaraaf,"  that  not  unmelodious 
but  inchoate  attempt  to  create  a  love-legend  in 
verse.  The  last  poem,  with  its  curious  leaps  from 
the  peaks  of  Milton  to  the  musky  vales  of  Moore, 
would  be  a  good  travesty  on  one  of  the  latter  poet's 
pseudo-Oriental  romances,  if  form,  scenery,  and  a 
conscientious  procession  of  "Notes"  could  make  it 
so.  In  his  juvenile  way,  Poe  worked  just  as  Moore 
had  done,  reading  up  for  his  needs,  but  he  mistook 
the  materia  poetica  for  poetry  itself.  There  is  a  bit 
of  verse  in  it  —  the  invocation  to  Ligeia  —  which  is 
like  the  wraith  of  beauty,  and  here  and  there  are 
other,  but  fainter,  traces  of  an  original  gift.  A  less 
self-critical  genius  than  Poe  would  have  gone  on 
making  more  "Tamerlanes"  and  "Al  Aaraaf s"  un 
til  he  made  them  nearly  as  well  as  his  masters,  and 
none  would  care  for  them,  there  being  already  enough 
of  their  kind.  If  he  never  freed  his  temper  from 
Byronism,  he  certainly  changed  the  mould  and 
method  of  his  poetry,  until  he  arrived  at  something 
absolutely  his  own  —  becoming  solely  a  lyrist,  and 
^  never  writing  a  lyric  until  possessed  of  some  initia 
tive  strain.  When  in  after  years  he  engaged  to 
write  and  deliver  a  long  poem,  his  nature  revolted; 
he  found  it  beyond  his  power,  and  he  fell  back  upon 
the  unintelligible  "Al  Aaraaf"  as  a  makeshift  with 
the  Boston  audience.  Other  American  poets  have 

xx  , 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

found  it  equally  impossible  to  fill  a  half-hour  with 
verse  written  to  order,  and  have  figured  to  even 
less  advantage  on  state  occasions.  Touches  of  Poe's 
natural  and  final  quality  are  to  be  found  here  and 
there  among  the  fragmentary  lyrics  in  his  early 
volumes,  and  two  of  the  more  complete  poems  are 
very  striking.  "To  Helen"  is  so  lovely,  though  not  1 
absolutely  flawless,  that  one  wonders  it  had  no  com-  \ 
panions  of  its  kind.  The  other  is  the  sonnet  "To 
Science,"  originally  the  prelude  to  "Al  Aaraaf,  and 
in  this  volume  placed  where  it  belongs.  It  may  be 
that  Poe  was  so  impressed  by  the  gathering  conflict 
between  poetry  and  science,  through  pondering  upon 
the  antithesis  drawn  by  Coleridge.  A  young  ro 
mancer,  at  the  outset  of  the  perturbation  involved, 
could  not  be  expected  to  await  with  patience  that 
golden  and  still  distant  future  when,  according  to 
Wordsworth's  preface,  the  poet  and  the  philosopher 
are  to  become  one.  He  himself  was  not  without 
the  scientific  bent  and  faculty,  but  as  a  poet  and 
recounter  his  work  lay  in  the  opposite  extreme. 

Mention  of  the  interlude,  "Ligeia!  Ligeia!"  re- \ 
calls  the  fact  that  in  his  early  poems  and  tales  Poe 
liberally  drew  upon  the  rather  small  stock  of  pet    I 
words,  epithets,  names,  and  phrases,  which  he  in 
vented,  or  kept  at  hand,  for  repeated  use  throughout 
the  imaginative  portion  of  his  writings.     The  "alba 
tross"  and  "condor"  are  his  birds,  no  less  than  the 
raven;    and  such  names  as  "Ligeia,"  "D'Elormie," 
"Weir,"  "Yaane_k,"  "Auber,"  add  an  effect  to  the 
studied  art  of  the  pieces  in  which  they  appear.     It 
has  been  pointed  out  that  his  familiars  are  chiefly 
angels  and  demons,  with  an  attendance  of  dreams, 
echoes,  ghouls,  gnomes,  and  mimes,  for  character-  f 
istic  service. 

xxi 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

There  is  every  reason  why  the  element  in  his  poetry 
which  to  some  appears  so  valueless  should  first  be 
considered.  He  was  indeed,  and  avowedly,  a  |>oet 
of  SouncL  From  his  childhood,  things  must  have 
**beat  time  to  nothing"  in  his  brain,  and  his  natural 
bent  may  have  been  confirmed  by  some  knowledge 
of  Tieck's  doctrine  that  sense  in  poetry  is  secondary 
to  sound;  the  truth  being,  no  less,  that  impassioned 
thought  makes  its  own  gamut,  —  that  sense  and 
sound  go  together,  for  reasons  which  are  coming  to 
be  scientifically  understood.  On  the  latter  ground 
one  must  surmise  that,  where  lyrical  melody  is  ab 
solute,  poetic  thought  is  its  undertone,  except  in  the 
case  of  a  pure  fantasia  like  "Kubla  Khan"  or  the 
verse  of  some  metrical  lunatic  —  such  as  more  than 
one  of  Poe's  imitators  proved  himself  to  be.  Whether 
or  not  music  is,  as  Frederick  Tennyson  entitles  it, 
"the  queen  of  the  arts"  whose  "inexhaustible  spring 
is  the  soul  itself,"  the  lyrist  who  disdains  it,  and  the 
critic  who  disdains  the  musical  lyrist,  are  of  an  equal 
rashness.  Poe's  own  estimate  of  music  was  quite  as 
extreme,  and  perfectly  sincere;  and  with  respect  to 
that  art,  there  is  no  better  illustration  of  its  embalm 
ing  power  as  an  element  of  poetic  expression  than 
the  rhythm  of  Poe's  critical  master,  Coleridge,  - 
whose  haunting  cadence,  rather  than  his  philosophic 
thought,  enthralled  the  minstrel  group  to  which  he 
was  least  allied,  and  whose  "Christabel"  disclosed 
to  Scott  and  Byron  the  accentual  law  of  English 
prosody.  For  Poe  the  vibrations  of  rhythmical  lan 
guage  contained  its  higher  meaning;  the  libretto 
was  nothing,  the  score  all  in  all.  Take  "Ulalume," 
for  instance,  because  so  many  pronounce  it  meaning 
less,  and  a  farrago  of  monotonous  cadences,  and  be 
cause  it  is  said  to  violate  Lessing's  law  by  trenching 

xxii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

on  the  province  of  music.  Surely,  if  there  is  any 
art  which  may  assume  that  province,  it  is  the  art 
of  speech,  and  this  whether  in  the  rhythm  of  verse 
or  the  more  intricate  and  various  rhythm  of  prose. 
The  effect  of  verse  primarily  depends  upon  the  re-  /, 
currence  of  accents^  measures,  vocalizations;  and 
the  more  stated  the  recurrence^  the  less  various  and 
potential  the  rhythm;  as  when  the  infinite  play  of 
waves  changes  to  a  current  between  measured  banks: 
a  shallow  river 

"to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals." 

Ordered  measures  compel  attention,  defining  and 
prolonging  efficient  notes.  To  make  the  sense  re 
sponsive,  as  one  chord  responds  to  the  vibrations  of 
another,  —  to  intensify  the  average  hearer's  feeling, 
—  iteration  comes  into  play.  The  rhythm  of  prose 
is  always  changing,  and,  if  recognized,  cannot  be 
dwelt  upon.  Ordinary  speech  is  nearest  to  pure 
nature,  and  we  are  so  little  sensible  of  its  flexible 
rhythm  as  to  be  arrested  by  it  no  more  than  by  sun 
light,  or  by  the  influx  of  the  electric  current  at  its 
highest  voltage. 

It  must  be  confessed,  then,  that  much  of  the  fol 
lowing  poetry,  judged  by  this  specific  element,  is 
secondary  in  one  or  two  respects.  Technically,  be 
cause  it  rarely  attains  to  the  lyrical  quality  that 
alone  can  satisfy  the  delicate  ear.  In  verse,  as  in 
a  keyed  instrument,  any  advance  means  finer  in 
tervals  and  more  varied  range.  Poe's  sense  of  time; 
and  accent  was  greater  than  that  of  tone.  The/ 
melody  of  his  pieces  oftenest  named,  though  not 
"infantine,"  is  elementary  —  and  far  from  elemental. 
Its  obviousness  catches  the  ear;  and  many,  who  are 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

moved  by  it  to  their  full  capacity  of  feeling,  see  in 
him  their  poet,  and  therefore  the  best  poet.  We 
owe  the  more  subtle  quality  of  his  heptasyllabic  verse 
to  early  reading  of  the  poet  that  struck  the  pure 
lyrical  strain  as  none  other  since  the  Elizabethans  — 
who  were  lyrists  one  and  all.  Shelley,  whether  by 
instinct,  or  having  learned  it  from  them,  and  from 
his  Greek  choruses  and  anthology,  wrought  the  charm 
of  broken  cadences  and  wandering  chords.  Poe  at 
1  least  felt  the  spirit  of  Shelley's  monodies,  such  as 
the  "Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills,"  and 
added  something  to  it  in  "The  Sleeper,"  "The  City 
in  the  Sea,"  and  "The  Valley  of  Unrest." 

If  the  poetry  of  sound,  to  be  real,  is  also  the 
poetry  of  sense,  it  implies  a  reservation  in  our  esti 
mate  of  Poe,  that  we  reflect  upon  structure  as  a 
main  consideration,  and  do  not  at  the  outset  pass 
from  the  technique  to  what  the  song  expresses  —  to 
the  feeling,  the  imagination,  the  sudden  glory  of 
thought.  We  come  to  this  in  the  end,  yet  are 
halted  often  throughout  his  later  lyrics  by  the  per 
sistence  of  their  metrical  devices.  In  the  early 
verses  just  named,  which  he  finally  brought  to  com 
pleteness,  we  do  find  those  delicious  overtones,  and 
that  poetry  for  poets,  which  were  unwonted  to  the 
muse  of  his  country  and  time.  For  these  one  must 
read  "The  Sleeper,"  -  even  more,  "The  City  in  the 
Sea,"  of  which  the  light  is  streaming 

"Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 


xxiv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

"Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 
So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 
That  all  seems  pendulous  in  air, 
While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down." 

In  one,  certainly,  of  these  remodelled  pieces,  the 
stanzas  finally  entitled  "To  One  in  Paradise,"  the 
spell  of  Shelley's  "wandering  airs"  that  "faint" 
is  captured  for  Poe's  momentary  and  ethereal 
mood. 

The  revision  of  "Lenore,"  originally  "A  Psean," 
involved  his  first  success  with  the  repetend.  There  \ 
is  little  in  the  annals  of  literary  art  so  curious,  and  ' 
nothing  half  so  revelatory  of  the  successive  processes 
in  the  handicraft  of  a  fastidious  workman,  as  the 
first  complete  Variorum  of  Poe's  metrical  writings, 
which  will  be  found  in  the  Notes  appended  to  the 
text  adopted  for  this  volume.  With  the  exception  / 
of  "To  Helen"  and  "Israfel,"  his  early  poems  greW| 
slowly,  "a  cloud  that  gathered  shape,"  from  the 
formless  and  sometimes  maundering  fragments  con 
tained  in  the  volume  of  1831,  to  their  consistent 
beauty  in  1845.  Even  as  it  finally  appeared,  "Le 
nore"  did  not  quite  satisfy  him,  and  our  text 
now  profits  by  the  marginal  changes,  in  the  poet's 
hand-writing,  on  the  pages  of  his  own  copy  of 
"The  Raven  and  Other  Poems."  Justifiable  pro 
tests  are  often  heard  against  alterations  made  by 
poets  in  their  well-established  texts,  but  Poe  had 
to  change  his  early  verse  or  discard  it  altogether, 
and  his  after-touches,  even  with  respect  to  "The 
Raven,"  were  such  as  to  better  the  work.  For 
an  example  of  the  repetend,  as  here  considered,  we 


xxv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

need  only  take  the  final  couplet  of  any   stanza  of 
"Lenore:" 


"An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that _ ever  died  so 

young, 

A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 
young." 

It  is  just  as  deft  and  persistent  throughout  "The 
Raven;"  as  exemplified  in  the  lines  so  often  quoted, 
upon  one  whom  "unmerciful  Disaster" 

"Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  bur 
den  bore : 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore"  — 

and  so  it  characterizes  "Eulalie,"  "The  Bells,"  "For 
Annie,"  and  "Annabel  Lee,"  reaching  its  extreme  in 
"Ulalume."  The  poet  surely  found  his  clew  to  it, 
just  as  "Outis"  intimated,  in  Coleridge's  wondrous 
"Rime;"  since,  though  not  unknown  to  English 
balladry,  it  does  not  therein  produce  the  conjuring 
effect  of  which  we  are  sensible  when  we  read:  — 

"And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 
And  it  would  work  them  woe: 
For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
'Ah  wretch !'  said  they,  'the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! ' " 

The  force  of  the  refrain,  a  twin  adjuvant  of  Poe's 
verse,  —  as  used,  for  example,  in  "The  Raven"  and 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

"The  Bells,"  —  was  impressed  upon  him,  most  prob 
ably,  by  Miss  Barrett's  constant  resort  to  it,  of 
which  the  toll  of  the  passing  bell,  in  "The  Rhyme 
of  the  Duchess  May,"  is  a  good  instance  .^  Appar 
ently,  also,  he  owed  his  first  idea  of  the  nieasure  of 
"The  Raven,"  and  something  of  what  he  would  have 
called  the  "decora"  of  that  poem,  to  one  or  more 
passages  in  "Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  but  only 
as  one  musician  receives  his  key  from  another,  to 
utilize  it  with  a  fresh  motive  and  for  an  original  / 
composition.  With  respect  to  the  repetend  and  re-  '  i 
frain,  it  must  finally  be  noted  that  they  are  the  basis 
of  his  later  manner;  that  in  their  combination  and 
mutual  reaction  they  constitute  the  sign-manual,  and 
the  artistic  reliance,  of  Poe  in  every  one  of  the  lyrical 
poems  composed  within  the  last  five  years  of  his 
life,  "The  Raven"  beginning  the  series.  V 

Two  or  three  of  the  earlier  pieces  are  distinguished 
from  the  rest  by  the  vision,  the  ideality,  the  intel 
lectual  purpose,  which  alone  can  devise  and  perfect 
a  work  of  art.  "Israfel"  came  nearer  to  complete 
ness  at  once  than  his  other  youthful  poems,  except 
the  fortunate  little  cameo,  -  "Heleny  thy  beauty  is 
to  me;"  and  the  Variorum  shows  relatively  few 
changes  from  the  text  of  1831.  As  a  rapturous  decla 
ration  of  kinship  with  the  singer  "whose  heart 
strings  are  a  lute"  it  is  its  own  excuse  for  any  license 
taken  in  forcing  a  passage  from  the  Koran.  Some 
of  the  lines  are  transcendent: 

"The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit: 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute: 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 
xxvii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

"Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours." 

The  more  "Israfel"  is  studied,  the  rarer  it  seems. 
The  lyric  phrasing  is  minstrelsy  throughout  —  the 
soul  of  nature  mastering  a  human  voice.  Poe  did 
well  to  perfect  this  brave  song  without  marring  its 
spontaneous  beauty;  young  as  he  was,  he  knew 
when  he  had  been  a  poet  indeed. 

An  equally  captivating  poem,  in  which  we  have 
the  handling  of  a  distinct  theme  by  an  imaginative 
artist,  is  that  most  ideal  of  lyrical  allegories,  "The 
Haunted  Palace."     Its   author's  allegorical' genius 
was  as  specific,  in  both  his  verse  and  his  romantic 
prose,   as  Hawthorne's  —  less  varied,  but  at  times 
more  poetic.     This  changeful  dream  of  radiance  and 
gloom,  rehearsed  by  the  dreamer  in  his  purest  tones, 
unites,  beyond  almost  any  other  modern  poem,  an 
enchanting  melody  with  a  clear  imagining,  to  cele 
brate  one  of  the  most  tragical  of  human  fates.     The 
palace,  at  first  risen  "like  an  exhalation"  from  the 
meads  of  Paradise,  is  now  but  the  shattered  and 
phantasmal  relic  of  its  starry  prime,  and  of  its  in 
habitants  with  their  dethroned  monarch,  the  sov 
ereign  Reason.     Its  once  lustrous  windows,  like  the 
distraught  eyes  of  the  Cenci,  exquisite  in  her  be 
wilderment,  are  now  the  betraying  emblems  of  a 
lost  mind.     Still  another  piece  with  a  defined  theme 
is  "The  Conqueror  Worm."     This  has  less  beauty, 
and  verges  on  the  melodramatic  border  that  is  the 
danger-line  of  a  romanticist.     Piteousness  is  its  mo 
tive,  as  so  often  in  the  works  of  Poe,  and  its  power 

xxviii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

is  unquestionable  as  we  see  it  framed,  in  the  story 
of  Ligeia,  like  "The  Haunted  Palace"  in  that  of  the 
fated  Usher.  The  skilful  interblending  of  these 
poems  with  the  doom  and  mystery  of  the  prose  ro 
mances,  and  that  of  the  stanzas,  "To  One  in  Para 
dise,"  with  the  drama  of  a  Venetian  night  in  "The 
Assignation,"  render  it  a  question  whether  the  three 
stories,  each  so  powerful  in  its  kind,  were  not  written 
as  a  musician  might  compose  sonatas,  to  develop 
the  utmost  value  of  the  lyrical  themes.  They  do 
this  so  effectively  as  to  strengthen  the  statement 
that  Poe's  record  as  a  poet  goes  beyond  his  verse 
bequeathed  to  us.  The  prose  of  his  romances,  at 
the  most  intense  pitch,  seems  to  feel  an  insufficiency, 
and  summons  music  and  allegory  to  supplement  its 
work. 

Thus,  in  the  origin  and  evolution  of  verse  written 
before  his  thirty-fifth  year,  we  find  his  natural  gift 
unsophisticated,  except  in  the  case  of  a  single  lyric, 
by  the  deliberate  methods  which  he  afterwards  and 
successfully   employed.     If,   now,   we   consider  the 
spirit  of  all  his  work  as  a  poet,  —  it  is,  in  fact,  con 
sistent  with  his  theories  of  poetry  in  general  and  of 
his  own  in  especial,  as  set  forth  at  the  outset,  and 
in  time  supplemented  in  "The  Poetic  Principle"  and 
other  essays.  |His  verse  is  based  in  truth,  as  a  faithX 
f ul  expression  of  his  most  emotional  mood  —  to  wit,  I .. 
an  exquisite  melancholy,  all  the  more  exquisite  be-^ 
cause  unalloyed  by  hope./   The  compensation  given  \ 
certain  natures  for  a  sensitive  consciousness  of  mor-  ' 
tality  and  all  its  ills  involved  is  that  of  finding  the 
keenest  pleasure  in  the  most  ruthless  pain.     Poe, 
wholly  given  to  "the  luxury  of  woe,"  made  music 
of  his  broodings.     If  he  did  not  cherish  his  doom, 
or  bring  it  on  determinedly,  that  which  he  prized 

xxix 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

the  most  was  of  a  less  worth  to  him  when  not  con 
secrated  by  the  dread,  even  the  certainty,  of  its 
impending  loss.  His  themes  were  regret,  the  irrep 
arable,  the  days  that  are  no  more.y  His  intellec 
tual  view  of  the  definition  and  aim  of  poetry  has 
been  briefly  noted  in  an  Introduction  to  the  Criti 
cism,  but  may  properly  be  considered  again.  It  was 
not  so  much  borrowed  from,  as  confirmed  by,  what 
he  found  in  his  readings  of  Coleridge,  Mill,  and  others, 
who  have  discoursed  upon  imagination,  emotion, 
melody,  as  servitors  of  the  poet  and  his  art.  We 
have  his  early  generalizations  upon  the  province  of 
song.  Not  truth,  but  pleasure,  he  thought  to  be 
its  object.  The  pleasure  depended  upon  the  quality 
of  lyrical  expression,  and  must  be  subtile  —  not  ob 
viously  defined.  Music,  he  said,  is  its  essential 
quality,  "since  the  comprehension  of  sweet  sound 
is  our  most  indefinite  conception."  To  this  it  may 
be  rejoined  that  the  hearer's  definiteness  of  compre 
hension  depends  largely  upon  his  knowledge  of 
music,  both  as  a  science  and  as  an  art.  On  the 
other  hand,  many  who  are  sensitive  to  musical  ex 
pression  will  accord  with  Poe's  maturer  avowal  that 
"it  is  in  music  that  the  soul  most  nearly  attains  the 
supernal  end  for  which  it  struggles."  From  the 
first  he  was  impatient  of  "metaphysical"  verse  and 
of  its  practitioners.  Many  years  later,  he  laid  stress 
on  his  belief  "that  a  long  poem  does  not  exist." 
This  statement  had  been  made  by  others,  but 
seemed  to  him  a  necessary  inference  from  any  defi 
nition  of  poetry  as  the  voice  of  emotion;  moreover, 
it  tallied  with  a  sense  of  his  own  capacity  for  sus 
taining  an  emotional  tide,  whether  of  influx  or  out 
flow.  In  Mr.  Lang's  comment,  the  point  is  made 
that  this  theory  or  paradox  "shrinks  into  the  com- 

XXX 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

monplace  observation  that  Poe  preferred  lyric  po-! 
etry,  and  that  lyrics  are  essentially  brief."  Short 
poems,  in  lyrical  measures,  were  in  truth  the  only 
ones  in  which  he  did  anything  out  of  the  common. 
Thus  he  restricts  an  art  to  the  confines  of  his  own 
genius,  and  might  as  well  forbid  a  musician  to  com 
pose  a  symphony  or  other  extended  masterpiece. 
We  say  "the  musician,"  because  music  is  that  other 
art  which,  like  poetry,  operates  through  successive 
movements,  having  as  a  special  function  prolonga 
tion  in  time.  As  for  this,  all  Poe's  work  shows  him 
as  a  melodist  rather  than  a  harmgnist;  his  ear  is 
more  analytic  than  synthetic,  and  so  is  his  intellect, 
except  in  the  structural  logic  of  his  briefer  forms  of 
poetry  and  prose  narrative.  The  question  turns  on 
the  capacity  for  sustained  exaltation  on  the  part  of 
poet  or  musician,  reader  or  listener.  With  respect 
to  Poe's  lifelong  abjuration  of  "the  didactic,"  honor 
is  due  his  memory;  none  attacked  its  abuse  so  con 
sistently,  and  at  a  time  so  opportune.  Declaring 
poetry  to  be  the  child  of  taste,  he  arrives  at  his 
clear-cut  formula  that  it  is  "The  Rhythmical  Crea 
tion  of  Beauty."  If  in  his  analysis  of  this,  —  the 
rhythm  of  human  language  being  implied,  —  he  had 
made  his  last  word  sufficiently  inclusive,  the  defini 
tion  would  be  excellent.  But  he  confines  the  mean 
ing  of  "beauty"  to  aesthetics,  and  to  the  one  form 
of  sensibility  which  he  terms  "supernal,"  -  that  of  ^ 
ecstatic  sadness  and  regret. 

In  the  end,  continuing  from  the  general  to  the 
particular,  he  still  further  limited  his  supernal  beauty 
to  the  expression  of  a  single  motive,  by  reasoning 
toward  a  theme  that  must  be  its  highest  excitant. 
This  he  did  most  fully  in  the  "Philosophy  of  Com 
position,"  with  "The  Raven"  for  a  paradigm. 

xxxi 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

Since,  he  argued,  the  extreme  note  of  beauty  is  sad 
ness,  caused  by  the  tragedy  of  life  and  our  power- 
lessness  to  grasp  its  meaning  or  avail  against  it,  the 
tone  of  beauty  must  relate  to  the  irreparable,  and 
its  genesis  to  a  supremely  pathetic  event.  The 
beauty  of  woman  is  incomparable,  the  death  of  a 
beloved  and  beautiful  woman  the  supreme  loss  and 
"the  most  poetical  topic  in  the  world."  Upon  it 
he  would  lavish  his  impassioned  music,  heightening 
its  effects  by  every  metrical  device,  and  by  contrast 
with  something  of  the  quaint  and  grotesque  —  as 
the  loveliness  and  glory  of  a  mediaeval  structure  are 
intensified  by  gargoyles,  and  by  weird  discordant 
tracery  here  and  there. 

The\  greater  portion  of  Poe's  verse  accords  with 
his  thedry  at  large.  Several  of  the  later  poems  illus 
trate  it  in  general  and  particular.  "The  Raven" 
bears  out  his  ex  post  facto  analysis  to  the  smallest 
etail.  We  have  the' note  of  hcgeLessness",  the  brood 
ing  regret,  the  artistic  value  supported  by  richly  ro 
mantic  properties  in  keeping;  the  occasion  follows 
the  death  of  a  woman  beautiful  and  beloved;  the 
sinister  bird  is  an  emblem  of  the  irreparable,  and  its 
voice  the  sombre  "Nevermore." "  Finally,  the  melody 
of  this  strange  poem  is  that  of  a  vocal  dead-march, 
and  so  compulsive  with  its  peculiar  measure,  its  re 
frain  and  repetends,  that  in  the  end  even  the  more 
critical  yielded  to  its  quaintness  and  fantasy,  and 
accorded  it  a  lasting  place  in  literature.  No  other 
modern  lyric  is  better  known;  none  has  been  more 
widely  translated  into  foreign  tongues  or  made  the 
subject  of  more  comment.  While  it  cannot  be  pro 
nounced  its  author's  most  poetic  composition,  nor 
render  him  a  "poet's  poet,"  it  still  is  the  lyric  most 
associated  with  his  name.  His  seemingly  whimsical 

xxxii 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

account  of  its  formation  most  likely  is  both  true  and 
false.  Probably  the  conception  and  rough  cast  of 
the  piece  were  spontaneous,  and  the  author,  then  at 
his  prime  both  as  a  poet  and  a  critic,  saw  how  it 
best  might  be  perfected,  and  finished  it  somewhat 
after  the  method  stated  in  his  essay.  The  analysis 
will  enable  no  one  to  supersede  imagination  by  arti 
fice.  It  may  be  that  Poe  never  would  have  written 
it  —  that  he  would  have  obeyed  the  workman's  in 
stinct  to  respect  the  secrecy  of  art,  lest  the  volun 
tary  exposure  of  his  Muse  should  be  avenged  by 
her  —  had  he  not  ruminated  upon  the  account  given 
him  by  Dickens,  of  the  manner  in  which  Godwin 
wrote  "Caleb  Williams,"  namely:  that  he  wrote  it 
"backwards."  He  "first  involved  his  hero  in  a 
web  of  difficulties,  forming  the  second  volume,  and 
then,  for  the  first,  cast  about  him  for  some  mode  of 
accounting  for  what  he  had  done." 

Poe's  faculties  as  a  poet  being  evidently  in  full 
vigor  when  he  composed  "The  Raven,"  its  instant 
success  well  might  have  inclined  him  to  renew  their 
exercise.     He   did   produce   a   few   more   lyrics,   of 
which  two  — "The  Bells"  and  "Annabel  Lee" 
are    almost    equally    well    known,    and    they    were 
written  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  the  time  in  whic 
he  was  least  equal  to  extended  work.     If  his  career 
had  gone  on,  and  he  had  continued,  even  at  long 
intervals,  to  write  pieces  so  distinctive,  there  would 
now  be  small  contention  as  to  his  rank  as  an  Ameri- ' 
can  poet.     Apparently  he  never  even  attempted  to"\ 
j compose  unless  some  strain  possessed  him  in  that  1  Li 
'mysterious  fashion  known  to  poets  and  melodists    ^' 
alone;  and  this  most  likely  at  the  abnormal  physical  1 
and  mental  crises  that  recur  throughout  periods  of  ) 


-  / 

xxxiii 


suffering  and  demoralization.  /, 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

His  interpretative  power  —  which  so  informs  "The 
Bells"  with  human  consciousness  and  purpose,  until 
joy,  passion,  rage,  and  gloom  are  the  meaning  of 
their  strokes  and  vibrations  —  is  always  triumphant 
when  he  enters,  as  in  "Ulalume,"  his  own  realm  of 
fantasy,  "the  limbo  of  ...  planetary  souls."  The 
last-named  poem,  by  no  means  a  caprice  of  grotesque 
sound  and  phraseology,  such  as  some  have  deemed 
it,  is  certainly  unique  in  craftsmanship,  and  the  ex 
treme  development  of  his  genius  on  its  mystical  side. 
The  date  of  this  piece  supports  the  legend,  which 
one  is  fain  to  believe,  that  it  was  conceived  in  his 
hour  of  darkest  bereavement.  The  present  writer 
has  said  elsewhere  that  it  "seems  an  improvisation, 
such  as  a  violinist  might  play  upon  the  instrument 
which  remained  his  one  thing  of  worth  after  the 
death  of  a  companion  who  had  left  him  alone  with 
his  own  soul."  The  simple  and  touching  "Annabel 
Lee,"  doubtless  also  inspired  by  the  memory  of  his 
Virginia,  appeared  after  his  own  death  with  Gris- 
wold's  remarkable  obituary  of  him,  in  the  New  York 
"Tribune."/  The  refrain  and  measure  of  this  lyric 
suggests  a  reversion  in  the  music-haunted  brain  of 
its  author,  to  the  songs  and  melodies  that,  whether 
primitive  or  caught  up,  are  favorites  with  the  colored 
race,  and  that  must  have  been  familiar  to  the  poet 
during  his  childhood  in  the  South. 

Little  more  need  here  be  said  of  this  child  of  the 
early  century,  who  gained  and  long  will  hold  a  niche 
in  the  world's'  Valhalla  —  not  for  a  many-sided  in 
spiration,  since  his  song  is  at  the  opposite  extreme 
from  that  of  those  universal  poets  the  greatest  of 
whom  has  received  the  epithet  of  myriad-minded  - 
but  as  one  who  gazed  so  intently  at  a  single  point 
that  he  became  self-hypnotized,  and  rehearsed  most 

xxxiv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

musically  the  visions  of  his  trance;  not  through 
human  sympathy  or  dramatic  scope  and  truth,  but 
through  his  individuality  tempered  by  the  artistic 
nature  which  seizes  upon  one's  own  grief  or  exulta 
tion  for  creative  use;  most  of  all,  perhaps,  as  one 
whose  prophetic  invention  anticipated  the  future, 
;and  throve  before  its  time  and  in  a  country  foreign 
to  its  needs  —  as  if  a  passion-flower  should  come  to 
growth  in  some  northern  forest  and  at  a  season  when 
blight  is  in  the  air.  His  music  surely  was  evoked 
from  "unusual  strings."  He  was  not  made  of  stuff 
to  please,  nor  cared  to  please,  the  didactic  moralists, 
since  he  held  that  truth  and  beauty  are  one,  and  that 
beauty  is  the  best  antidote  to  vice  —  a  word  synony 
mous,  in  his  belief,  with  deformity  and  ugliness. 
His  song  "was  made  to  be  sung  by  night,"  yet  was 
the  true  expression  of  himself  and  his  world.  That 
world  he  located  out  of  space,  out  of  time,  but  his 
poems  are  the  meteors  that  traverse  it.  So  far  as 
it  was  earthly,  it  was  closed  about,  and  barred 
against  the  common  world,  like  the  walled  retreat 
of  Prince  Prospero  in  "The  Masque  of  the  Red 
Death;"  and  in  the  same  wise  his  poems  become  the 
hourly  utterance  of  that  clock  of  ebony,  the  chimes 
from  which  constrained  the  revellers  to  pause  in 
their  dancing  with  strange  disconcert,  and  with  por 
tents  of  they  knew  not  what.  His  prose  at  times 
was  poetry,  and  for  the  rest  its  Muse  seldom  gave 
place  to  the  sister  Muse  of  song.  The  prose  of  poets 
is  traditionally  genuine,  yet,  in  our  day  at  least,  the 
greater  poets  have  for  the  most  part  written  verse 
chiefly,  if  not  alone.  If  more  of  Poe's  imaginative 
work  had  been  cast  in  metrical  form,  it  might  have 
proved  more  various  and  at  spells  even  rapturous 
and  glad.  And  if  the  sunshine  of  his  life  had  been 

xxxv 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS 

indeed  even  the  shadow  of  the  perfect  bliss  which 
he  conceived  to  be  the  heavenly  minstrel's,  he  would 
have  had  a  more  indubitable  warrant  for  his  noble 
vaunt,  that  Israfel  himself  earth-fettered, 


Might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 
A  mortal  melody." 


E.  C.  S. 


XXXVI 


I 

POEMS 


TO  THE  NOBLEST  OF  HER  SEX 

TO   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"  THE  DRAMA  OF  EXILE  " 

TO  MISS  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BARRETT 

OF    ENGLAND 
I  DEDICATE  THIS  VOLUME 

WITH   THE    MOST    ENTHUSIASTIC    ADMIRATION 
AND   WITH   THE   MOST   SINCERE   ESTEEM. 


Z.    A.    P. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  COLLECTION  OF  1845 

THESE  trifles  are  collected  and  republished  chiefly 
with  a  view  to  their  redemption  from  the  many  im 
provements  to  which  they  have  been  subjected  while 
going  "  the  rounds  of  the  press."  I  am  naturally  anx 
ious  that  what  I  have  written  should  circulate  as  I 
wrote  it,  if  it  circulate  at  all.  In  defence  of  my  own 
taste,  nevertheless,  it  is  incumbent  on  me  to  say  that  I 
think  nothing  in  this  volume  of  much  value  to  the  pub 
lic,  or  very  creditable  to  myself.  Events  not  to  be  con 
trolled  have  prevented  me  from  making,  at  any  time, 
any  serious  effort  in  what,  under  happier  circum 
stances,  would  have  been  the  field  of  my  choice.  With 
me  poetry  has  been  not  a  purpose,  but  a  passion;  and 
the  passions  should  be  held  in  reverence ;  they  must  not 
—  they  cannot  at  will  be  excited  with  an  eye  to  the 
paltry  compensations,  or  the  more  paltry  commenda 
tions,  of  mankind. 

E.  A.  P. 


o 


THE  RAVEN 

L-L  i  /  •„    ^  - 

INCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 
bver  niany  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten 

lore,  — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came 

a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber" 

door. 
"  'T   is   some   visitor,"   I   muttered,   "  tapping   at   my 

chamber  door: 

/     '         *•"•'  V""' 

Only  this  and  nothing  more." 


Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  Decem 
ber, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon 

the  floor. 

'  Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ;  —  vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore, 

For   the   rare   and   radiant   maiden   whom   the   angels 
name  Lenore: 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

7 


POEMS 

• 

iV<  <  >'3f  *  &ie  G^lkei!  s«d  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

,    - 
•;   curtain         ^ 

Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt 

before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating,: 
r/        "  'T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, 

Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 
door: 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"   said  I,   or  Madam,   truly   your   forgiveness   I 

implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came 

rapping,' 
And    so    faintly    you    came   tapping,    tapping    at    my 

chamber  door, 
\  That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  "  —  here  I  opened 

wide  the  door  :  — 

there  and  nothing  more. 


Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there 
wondering,  fearing, 

(Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  I 
dream  before;  II 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  tokep, 
And  the  .only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenprc?  " 

This   I   whispered,   and   an   echo   murmured   back   the 
word,  "  Lenore  :  " 

Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 
8 


THE  RAVEN 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
,  ,«.„,./     ^ 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than/ 

before. 
"  Surely,"   said   I,   "surely   that   is   something   aj/my 

window  lattice; 
Let  me   see,  then,  what  thereat  is,   and  this/mystery 

explore ; 

•*•  '*SS3^- 

Let   my   heart    be    still    a    moment    and   jfcnis    mystery 
explore : 

'T  is  the  wind  ancj  nothing  more.5 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when/with  many  a  flirt 

and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 

of  y&^objgtence, 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped 

or  stayepl  he : 
But,   with  feign"  of  lord   or  lady,   perched   above   my 

chamber  door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then   this    ebony   bird   beguiling   my   sad   fancy   into 
smiling 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it 
wore,  — 

'  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said, 
"  art  sure  no  craven, 

Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the 
Nightly  shore: 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plu 
tonian  shore !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 
9 


POEMS 

Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse 

so  plainly, 
Though   its    answer   little    meaning  —  little    relevancy 

bore; 
For  we   cannot  help   agreeing  that   no   living  human 

being 
Ever    yet    was    blessed    with    seeing    bird,  above    his 

chamber  door, 
Bird    or   beast    upon    the    sculptured   bust    above   his 

chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke 

only 

That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did 

outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a  feather  then  he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  —  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled   at    the    stillness    broken   by    reply    so    aptly 

spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 

and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed   fast  and   followed   faster  till  his   songs   one 

burden  bore: 
Till   the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore 

Of  *  Never  —  nevermore.'  " 
10 


THE  RAVEN 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  fancy  into  smil 
ing, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door; 

Then,   upon   the   velvet    sinking,   I   betook   myself   to 
linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of 

yore, 

)  What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous    ! 
bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no   syllable  ex 
pressing 

To   the   fowl   whose   fiery   eyes   now  burned   into   my 
bosom's  core; 

This  and^more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 
reclining 

On    the    cushion's    velvet    lining    that    the    lamp-light 
gloated  o'er, 

But  .whose    velvet    violet    lining    with    the    lamp-light 
gloating  o'er 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from   • 

an  unseen  censer 
Swung   by   seraphim   whose    foot-falls   tinkled   on   the 

tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch,"   I   cried,   "  thy   God   hath   lent   thee  —  by  ^ 

these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
&  «  Respite  —  respite  and  nepenthe'  from  thy  memories  of 

Lenore ! 

Quaff,   oh  quaff  this   kind   nepenthe,   and   forget   this 
lost  Lenore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 
11 


POEMS 


*c  Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil! 
Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee 

here  ashore, 
Desolate   yet   all   undaunted,   on   this   desert   land   en 

chanted  — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I 

implore  : 
|  Is   there  —  is  there  balm  in   Gilead  ?  —  tell   me  —  tell 

me,  I  implore  !  " 


ti  <-    Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet  !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil  —  prophet  still,  if 

bird  or  devil  ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we   } 

both  ajdore,  ~^-—  j.  | 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore  : 
Clasp    a   rare    and    radiant    maiden   whom    the    angels 

name  Lenore  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  !  "  I 

shrieked,  upstarting: 
"  Get    thee    back    into    the   tempest    and    the   Night's 

Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  quit  the  bust  above  my 

door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 

from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 


/"-/"A  0 


THE  RAVEN 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Palla&  just  above  my  chamber 

door ; 
And  his  eyes,'  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And    the   lamp-light    o'er   him    streaming   throws   his 

shadow  on  the  floor: 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore! 


BRIDAL  BALLAD 

THE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 
And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow ; 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  I  am  happy  now. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell, 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  his  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  revery  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  church-yard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  him  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now !  " 

And  thus  the  words  were  spoken, 
And  this  the  plighted  vow ; 

And  though  my  faith  be  broken, 

And  though  my  heart  be  broken, 

Here  is  a  ring,  as  token 
That  I  am  happy  now ! 
14 


BRIDAL  BALLAD 

Would  God  I  could  awaken! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how, 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken, 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


15 


THE  SLEEPER 

AT  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An   opiate   vapor,   dewy,   dim, 
Exhales  from  oujtjher  golden  rim,. 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain-top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grave ; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave; 
Wrapping  the  fog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see!  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  beauty   sleeps  !  —  and   lo !  where  lies 
Irene,  with  her  destinies ! 

O  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right, 
This  window  open  to   the  night? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop ; 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 
Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
And  wave  the  curtain  canopy 
So  fitfully,  so  fearfully, 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  hid, 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 
16 


LENORE.  15 


For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly  lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes  — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair—  the  death  upon  her  eyes. 


.-t  !  to-night  my  he&rt  is  light.     No  dirge  will  I  upraise, 
"-£ut  Waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  witt^a  Paean  of  old  days  !  ^ 
"  Let  no  bell  toll  !  —  lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hallowed  mirth, 
"Should  catch-  the  note,  as  it  doth  float-~up  from  the  damned 


from  fiends   below,  the  indignant  ghost  is 


riven — 

"  From  Hell  untc  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the  Heaven — 
"  From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the  King  of    , 

Heaven/  I 

"A 


HYMN 

c/ 


AT  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim- 
Maria  !  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  ! 
In  joy  and  wo — iri  good  and  ill — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee  ; 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  £V/3et  ho{^s  »  »f  thee  and  thine  ! 


THE  SLEEPER 

0  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear? 

Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here? 
Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

^- 

A  wonder  to  these  garden  trees! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor :  strange  thy  dress : 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 

And  this  all  solemn  silentness! 

i 

The  lady  sleeps.    Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  sacred  keep ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 

1  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 

While  the  pale  sheeted  ghosts  go  by. 

My  love,  she  sleeps.     Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep ! 
Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep ! 
Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 
For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold : 
Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 
And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls  . 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals: 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone: 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin, 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within! 


17 


LENORE 

AH,   broken   is   the  golden   bowl!   the   spirit  flown 
forever ! 
Let    the    bell    toll !  —  a    saintly    soul    floats    on    the 

Stygian   river; 
And,  Guy  De  Vere,  hast  thou  no  tear?  —  weep  mxv* 

or  nevermore! 
See,   on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies   thy  love, 

Lenore ! 
Come,  let  the  burial  rite 'be  read — the  funeral  song 

be  sung: 
An  anthem  for  the  queenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 

young, 
A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 

young. 

"  Wretches,   ye   loved  her   for  her  wealth   and  hated 

her  for  her  pride, 
And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her  — 

that  she  died! 
How    shall    the    ritual,    then,    be    read?    the    requiem 

how  be  sung 
By   you  —  by    yours,    the   evil   eye,  —  by   yours,    the 

slanderous  tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died 

so  young?  " 
Peccavimus;    but   rave   not   thus!   and   let   a   Sabbath 

song 
Go   up    to    God    so    solemnly    the   dead   may    feel   no 

wrong. 

18 


LENORE 

The  sweet  Lenore  hath  gone  before,  with  Hope  that 

flew  beside, 
Leaving  thee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should  have 

been  thy  bride: 
For  her,  the   fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly 

lies, 

The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair  but  not  within  her  eyes ; 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair  — the  death  upon 

her  eyes. 

"Avaunt!   avaunt!   from   fiends  below,   the  indignant 

ghost  is  riven  — 
From    Hell   unto    a    high    estate    far   up    within    the 

Heaven  — 
From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

King  of  Heaven! 

Let  no  bell  toll,  then,  —  lest  her.  soul,  amid  its  hal 
lowed  mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the 

damned  Earth ! 
And  I !  —  to-night  my  heart  is  light !  —  no  dirge  will 

I  upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  Paean  of  old 

days!" 


19 


DREAM-LAND 

T>  Y  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
-LJ  Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where  an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly 
From   an   ultimate   dim   Thule: 
From   a   wild   weird   clime   that   lieth,   sublime, 
Out  of  Space  —  out  of  Time. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms  and  caves  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over; 
Mountains   toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead,  — 
Their  still  waters,  still  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Their  lone  waters,  lone  and  dead, — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily; 
By  the  mountains  —  near  the  river 
Murmuring   lowly,   murmuring   ever; 
By  the  gray  woods,  by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp; 
20 


DREAM-LAND 

By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools 
Where  dwell  the  Ghouls; 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy, 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveller  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past: 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by, 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given, 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth  —  and  Heaven. 

i  For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 
'T  is  a  peaceful,  soothing  region; 
For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 
'T  is  —  oh,  't  is  an  Eldorado ! 
But  the  traveller,  travelling  through  it, 
May  not  —  dare  not  openly  view  it; 
Never   its   mysteries   are   exposed 
To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed; 
So  wills  its  King,  who  hath  forbid 
The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid; 
And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 
Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 

By   a   route   obscure   and   lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
Where   an  Eidolon,  named  Night, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 

ONCE  it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 
They  had   gone  unto   the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,   from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 
Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 
The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 
Nothing  there  is  motionless, 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
Over  the  magic  solitude. 
Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  trees 
That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 
Around  the  misty  Hebrides! 
Ah,  by  no  wind  those  clouds  are  driven 
That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 
Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 
Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 
In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye, 
Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 
And  weep  above  a  nameless  grave! 
They  wave :  —  from  out  their  fragrant  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops. 
They  weep :  —  from  off  their  delicate  stems 
Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

LO!  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  down  within   the   dim   West, 
Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the 

best 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers   that   tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,   by   lifting   winds    forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  Heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free: 
Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 
Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvellous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 


POEMS 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 
Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye,  — 

Not  the  gay ly- jewelled  dead, 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon    some   far-off   happier   sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 
The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide; 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven! 
The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 


TO  ZANTE 

isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take. 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss, 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes, 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more  —  no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes ! 
No  more!  alas,  that  magical  sad  sound 

Transforming    all!      Thy    charms    shall    please    no 

more, 
Thy  memory  no  more.    Accursed  ground ! 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enamelled  shore, 
O  hyacinthine  isle!     O  purple  Zante! 
"Isola  d'oro!     Fior  di  Levante!" 


SILENCE 

THERE    are     some    qualities,     some    incorporate 
things, 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 

From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and  shade. 
There  is  a  twofold  Silence  —  sea  and  shore, 

Body  and  soul.     One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 

Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown;  some  solemn  graces, 
Some  human  memories  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless :  his  name  's  "  No  More." 
He  is  the  corporate  Silence :  dread  him  not : 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself; 
But  should  some  urgent   fate   (untimely  lot!) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless  elf, 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man),  commend  thyself  to  God! 


T 


THE  COLISEUM 

of  the  antique  Rome!     Rich  reliquary 
Of  lofty   contemplation  left   to   Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power! 
At  length  —  at  length  —  after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage   and   burning  thirst 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie), 
I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory. 

Vastness,  and  Age,  and  Memories  of  Eld! 
Silence,  and  Desolation,  and  dim  Night! 
I  feel  ye  now,  I  feel  ye  in  your  strength, 
O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane! 
O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls; 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat; 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle; 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones. 


POEMS 

But  stay !  these  walls,  these  ivy-clad  arcades, 

These    mouldering    plinths,    these    sad   and    blackened 

shafts, 

These  vague  entablatures,  this  crumbling  frieze, 
These  shattered  cornices,  this  wreck,  this  ruin, 
These  stones  —  alas !  these  gray  stones  —  are  they  all, 
All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me? 

"Not  all"  — the  Echoes  answer  me  —  "  not  all! 

Prophetic  sounds  and  loud  arise  forever 

From  us,  and  from  all  Ruin,  unto  the  wise, 

As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 

We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men  —  we  rule 

With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 

We  are  not  impotent,  we  pallid  stones: 

Not  all  our  power  is  gone,  not  all  our  fame, 

Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown, 

Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us, 

Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie, 

Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 

And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 

Clothing  us   in   a   robe   of  more   than   glory." 


HYMN 

AT  morn  —  at  noon  —  at  twilight  dim, 
Maria !  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn. 
In  joy  and  woe,  in  good  and  ill, 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still! 
When  the  hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee. 
Now,  when   storms   of   fate   o'ercast 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thine ! 


ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute, 
and  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. 

Koran. 

f  N   Heaven  a   spirit  doth  dwell 
•*•  Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute ; 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say^(the  starry  choir 

And  the  other  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is   owing  to   that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, 
The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

30 


ISRAFEL 

But  the  skies  that,  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 

Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  God, 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live,  and  long! 

The   ecstasies   above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit: 
Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 

With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute : 

Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers   are   merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note   than   this   might   swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


31 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

IN  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once   a    fair   and   stately   palace  — 
Radiant  palace  —  reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion, 

It  stood  there; 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,   glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow 
(This  —  all  this  —  was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 

A  winged  odor  went  away. 

Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting, 

Porphyrogene, 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
32 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's   high   estate; 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That   blushed   and   bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers  now  within  that  valley 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms  that  move  fantastically 

To   a   discordant   melody; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever, 

And  laugh  —  but  smile  no  more. 


33 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

LO!  't  is  a  gala  night 
Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theatre  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 
The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly; 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro, 
Flapping  from  out  their  condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe. 

That  motley  drama  —  oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 

With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 

To   the   self-same   spot ; 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin, 

And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see  amid  the  mimic  rout 
A  crawling  shape  intrude: 
34 


THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude! 
It  writhes  —  it   writhes!  —  with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And   seraphs   sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbued. 

Out  —  out  are  the  lights  —  out  all! 

And  over  each  quivering  form 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
While  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero,  the  Conqueror  Worm. 


ELDORADO 

AYLY  bedight, 
A   gallant   knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 
Had  journeyed  long, 
Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old, 

This  knight  so  bold, 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow: 

"  Shadow,"  said  he, 

"  Where  can  it  be, 
This  land   of  Eldorado?" 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,   boldly   ride," 

The  shade  replied, 
"If  you  seek  for  Eldorado!" 

36 


I 


EULALIE 

DWELT   alone 
In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing 

bride, 

Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smil 
ing  bride. 

Ah,   less  —  less   bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl! 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl 
Can  vie   with   the   modest   Eulalie's   most   unregarded 

curl, 

Can    compare    with    the    bright-eyed    Eulalie's    most 
humble  and  careless  curl. 

Now  doubt  —  now  pain 
Come   never   again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh; 
And  all  day  long 
Shines,  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 

While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron  eye, 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet  eye. 

37 


THE  BELLS 


HEAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 
Silver  bells! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a   crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To    the    tintinnabulation    that    so    musically    wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells - 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 

Golden   bells! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 
v^        And  all   in   tune, 

*  What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 

To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon! 
38 


THE  BELLS 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What    a    gush    of    euphony    voluminously    wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  - 
To   the  rhyming  and   the  chiming  of  the  bells! 


m 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 

Brazen   bells  ! 

/What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  !     '  •**  ? 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright  ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 
/    What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 


POEMS 

Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By   the   twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In   the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells,  — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 

Of   the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 

IV 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Iron  bells ! 

r  What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 
They  are  Ghouls: 
40 


THE  BELLS 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 

A  pasan  from  the  bells ; 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells :  . 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  - 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells : 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells  - 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


ANNABEL  LEE 

f  T  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, ) 
•*•      In  a  kingdom  by  thfe  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee;     fs£iAj(s*/*- * 
And  this  maiden  she  lived -with  no  other  thought  ~ 

Than  to  love?  and  be  loved/  by  me. 

/  *h     "5 
I  y«r %  ^/ 

I  was  a  child  and)  she  was  a  child,1 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love] that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was'  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 


The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

/Went  envying  her  and  me ; 
that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  jvind-came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 


ANNABEL  LEE 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  '^who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we;i 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 

i   *>  t? 
For  the  moon  never  be'atnsj  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,/!  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling  —  my  darling  —  my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


43 


ULALUME 


THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober ; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere ; 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid  region  of  Weir : 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 

In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts 'they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 

And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 
44 


ULALUME 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 
Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 

Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  patlf  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct^with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  —  "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 

She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 

She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 
She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 

These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 
And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 

To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 

To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies: 
Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes: 
Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 

With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said  —  "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten !  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 

Oh,  fly !  —  let  us  fly !  —  for  we  must." 


POEMS 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 

Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust; 
In  agony  sobbed,c  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied  —  "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night : 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night! 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright: 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since   it    flickers   up   to    Heaven   through   the 
night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb; 

And  I  said  —  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?  " 
She  replied  —  "  Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 
'T  is  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume !  " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried  -£-  "  It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
46 


ULALUME 

That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here: 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir: 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 


II 

SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN  " 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

POLITIAN,  Earl  of  Leicester 

Di  BROGLIO,  a  Roman  Duke 

COUNT  CASTIGLIONE,  his  Son 

BALDAZZAR,  Duke  of  Surrey,  Friend  to  POLITIAN 

A  MONK 

LALAGE 

ALESSANDRA,  betrothed  to  CASTIGLIONE 

JACINTA,  Maid  to  LALAGE 

The  SCENE  lies  in  Rome 


SCENES  FROM  «  POLITIAN  " 

AN   UNPUBLISHED    DRAMA 


ROME. —  A  Hall  in  a  Palace.     ALESSANDRA  and  CASTI- 

GLIONE. 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Sad!  — not  I. 

Oh,  I  'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Rome ! 
A  few  days  more,  thou  knowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.     Oh,  I  am  very  happy ! 

ALESSANDRA 

Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  showing  ^ 
Thy  happiness !  — what  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply? 

CASTIGLIONE 

Did  I  sigh? 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.    It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly  —  a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
When  I  am  very  happy.    Did  I  sigh?     (sighing) 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou  didst.    Thou  art  not  well.    Thou  hast  indulged 
Too  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  see  it. 

51 


POEMS 

Late  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione,  —  these 
Will  ruin  thee !  thou  art  already  altered ; 
Thy  looks  are  haggard ;  nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 

CASTIGLIONE  (musing) 

Nothing,  fair  cousin,  nothing,  not  even  deep  sorrow, 
Wears  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine. 
I  will  amend. 

ALESSANDRA 

Do  it !    I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company,  too  —  fellows  low  born ; 
111  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 

CASTIGLIONE 

I  will  drop  them. 

ALESSANDRA 

Thou  wilt  —  thou  must.     Attend  thou  also  more 
To  thy  dress  and  equipage ;  they  are  over  plain 
For  thy  lofty  rank  and  fashion ;  much  depends 
Upon  appearances. 

CASTIGLIONE 

I  '11  see  to  it. 

ALESSANDRA 

Then  see  to  it !  pay  more  attention,  sir, 

To  a  becoming  carriage ;  much  thou  wantest 

In  dignity. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Much,  much,  oh,  much  I  want 
In  proper  dignity. 

52 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

ALESSANDRA  (haughtily) 

Thou  mockest  me,  sir! 

CASTIGLIONE  (abstractedly) 
Sweet,  gentle  Lalage! 

ALESSANDRA 

Heard  I  aright? 

I  speak  to  him  —  he  speaks  of  Lalage ! 
Sir  Count!     (places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  what 

art  thou  dreaming?     (aside)     He's  not  well! 
What  ails  thee,  sir? 

CASTIGLIONE  (starting) 
Cousin!  fair  cousin! — madam! 
I  crave  thy  pardon  —  indeed,  I  am  not  well. 
Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive.  —  Madam  —  the  Duke ! 

Enter  Di  BROGLIO 

DI  BROGLIO 

My  son,  I  've  news  for  thee !  —  hey  ?  —  what 's  the  mat 
ter?     (observing  ALESSANDRA) 
I'  the  pouts  ?    Kiss  her,  Castiglione !  kiss  her, 
You  dog !  and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  minute ! 
I  've  news  for  you  both.    Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Rome  —  Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester. 
We  '11  have  him  at  the  wedding.    'T  is  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 

ALESSANDRA 

What!   Politian 
Of  Britain,  Earl  of  Leicester? 

DI  BROGLIO 

The  same,  my  love. 

We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     A  man  quite  young 

53 


POEMS 

In  years,  but  gray  in  fame.    I  have  not  seen  him, 
But  rumor  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy 
Preeminent  in  arts  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.    We  '11  have  him  at  the  wedding. 

ALESSANDRA 

I  have  heard  much  of  this  Politian. 
Gay,  volatile,  and  giddy,  is  he  not, 
And  little  given  to  thinking? 

DI    BROGLIO 

Far  from  it,  love. 

No  branch,  they  say,  of  all  philosophy 
So  deep  abstruse  he  has  not  mastered  it. 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 

ALESSANDRA 

'T  is  very  strange! 
I  have  known  men  have  seen  Politian 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  of  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs. 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ridiculous !    Now  7  have  seen  Politian 

And  know  him  well :  nor  learned  nor  mirthful  he. 

He  is  a  dreamer,  and  a  man  shut  out 

From  common  passions. 

DI    BROGLIO 

Children,  we  disagree. 

Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.  Did  I  dream,  or  did  I  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man?  [exeunt 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN  " 

II 

A  lady's  apartment,  with  a  window  open  and  looking  into  a 
garden.  LALAGE,  in  deep  mourning,  reading  at  a  table 
on  which  lie  some  books  and  a  hand-mirror.  In  the 
background  JACINTA  (a  servant  maid)  leans  carelessly 
upon  a  chair. 

LALAGE 

Jacinta!  is  it  thou? 

JACINTA  (pertly) 

Yes,  ma'am,  I  'm  here. 

LALAGE 

I  did  not  know,  Jacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 
Sit  down  —  let  not  my  presence  trouble  you  — 
Sit  down  —  for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 

JACINTI  (aside) 
'T  is  time. 

(JACINTA  seats  herself  in  a  sidelong  manner  upon 
the  chair,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  back,  and 
regarding  her  mistress  with  a  contemptuous 
look.  LALAGE  continues  to  read) 

LALAGE 

"  It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 

Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil !  " 

(pauses,  turns  over  some  leaves,  and  resumes) 
"  No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow,  nor  shower, 
But  Ocean  ever  to  refresh  mankind 
Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  western  wind." 
Oh,  beautiful!  most  beautiful!  how  like 
To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  Heaven ! 
O  happy  land!     (pauses) 

55 


POEMS 

She  died  —  the  maiden  died  ! 
O  still  more  happy  maiden  who  couldst  die  ! 
Jacinta  ! 

(JACINTA  returns  no  answer,  and  LALAGE  pres 
ently  resumes) 

Again,  —  a  similar  tale 
Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea. 
Thus    speaketh   one   Ferdinand   in   the   words   of   the 


"  She  died  full  young  ;  "  one  Bossola  answers  him,  — 
"  I  think  not  so  —  her  infelicity 

Seemed  to  have  years  too  many."  —  Ah,  luckless  lady! 
Jacinta!  (still  no  answer) 

Here  's  a  far  sterner  story, 
But  like  —  oh,  very  like  —  in  its  despair, 
Of  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts  —  losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.     Thus  endeth  the  history,  and  her  maids 
Lean  over  her  and  weep,  two  gentle  maids 
With  gentle  names  —  Eiros  and  Charmion  : 
Rainbow  and  Dove! 

Jacinta  ! 

JACINTA  (pettishly) 

Madam,  what  is  it? 

LALAGE 

Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library  and  bring  me 
The  Holy  Evangelists? 

JACINTA 

Pshaw  !  [exit. 

56 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN  " 

LALAGE 

If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead,  it  is  there. 
Dew  in  the  night-time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found,  —  "  dew  sweeter  far  than  that 
Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill." 
(re-enter  JACINTA,  and  throws  a  volume  on  the  table) 

JACINTA 

There,  ma'am,  's  the  book,    (aside)    Indeed,  she  is  very 
troublesome. 

LALAGE  (astonished) 

What  did'st  thou  say,  Jacinta?     Have  I  done  aught 
To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee?  —  I  am  sorry. 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy  and  respectful,     (resumes  her  reading) 

JACINTA  (aside) 

I  can't  believe 
She  has  any  more  jewels  —  no  —  no  —  she  gave  me  all. 

LAL.AGE 

What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta?    Now  I  bethink  me, 
Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fares  good  Ugo,  and  when  is  it  to  be? 
Can  I  do  aught,  is  there  no  further  aid 
Thou  needest,  Jacinta? 

JACINTA  (aside) 

"  Is  there  no  further  aid  ?  " 
That 's  meant  for  me.     (aloud)    I  'm  sure,  madam,  you 

need  not 

Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 

57 


POEMS 

LALAGE 

Jewels,  Jacinta !    Now,  indeed,  Jacinta, 
I  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 

JACINTA 

Oh!  perhaps  not! 

But  then  I  might  have  sworn  it.    After  all, 
There  's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 
For  he  's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 
Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as  you; 
And  at  the  best  I  'm  certain,  madam,  you  cannot 
Have  use  for  jewels  now.     But  I  might  have  sworn  it. 

[exit. 

(LALAGE  bursts  into  tears  and  leans  her  head  upon 
the  table;  after  a  short  pause  raises  it) 

LALAGE 

Poor  Lalage !  and  is  it  come  to  this  ?  — 
Thy  servant  maid !  —  but  courage !  —  't  is  but  a  viper 
Whom  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  the  soul ! 

( taking  up  the  mirror) 

Ha !  here  at  least 's  a  friend  —  too  much  a  friend 
In  earlier  days  —  a  friend  will  not  deceive  thee. 
Fair  mirror  and  true!  now  tell  me  (for  thou  canst) 
A  tale,  a  pretty  tale  —  and  heed  thou  not 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.    It  answers  me. 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes  and  wasted  cheeks, 
And  Beauty  long  deceased  —  remembers  me 
Of  Joy  departed  —  Hope,  the  seraph  Hope, 
Inurned  and  entombed :  —  now,  in  a  tone 
Low,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible, 
Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning 
For  ruined  maid.    Fair  mirror  and  true,  thou  liest  not : 
Thou  hast  no  end  to  gain,  no  heart  to  break ; 

58 


SCENES  FROM  "  POLITIAN  " 

j 

Castiglione  lied  who  said  he  loved ; 
Thou  true — he  false,  false,  false! 

(while  she  speaks,  a  monk  enters  her  apartment, 
and  approaches  unobserved) 

MONK 

Refuge  thou  hast, 

Sweet  daughter,  in  Heaven.     Think  of  eternal  things, 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray ! 

LALAGE  (arising  hurriedly) 
I  cannot  pray !     My  soul  is  at  war  with  God ! 
The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturb  my  senses  —  go !    I  cannot  pray ; 
The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me ; 
Thy  presence  grieves  me  —  go !  thy  priestly  raiment 
Fills  me  with  dread,  thy  ebony  crucifix 
With  horror  and  awe ! 

MONK 
Think  of  thy  precious  soul! 

LALAGE 

Think  of  my  early  days !  think  of  my  father 

And  mother  in  Heaven ;  think  of  our  quiet  home, 

And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door ; 

Think  of  my  little  sisters  —  think  of  them ! 

And  think  of  me !  think  of  my  trusting  love 

And  confidence  —  his  vows  —  my  ruin  —  think  —  think 

Of  my  unspeakable  misery !  —  begone ! 

Yet  stay,  yet  stay !  — what  was  it  thou  saidst  of  prayer 

And  penitence?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith 

And  vows  before  the  throne? 

MONK 

I  did. 
59 


POEMS 

LALAGE 

'T  is  well. 

There  t*  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made, 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative  and  urgent, 
A  solemn  vow! 

MONK 

Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well. 

LALAGE 

Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well. 

Hast  thou  a  crucifix  fit  for  this  thing, 

A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 

This  sacred  vow?  (he  hands  her  his  own) 

Not  that  —  oh,  no !  —  no !  —  no  ! 
(shuddering) 

Not    that!   Not   that!  — I   tell   thee,   holy   man, 
Thy  raiments  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me. 
Stand  back !    I  have  a  crucifix  myself,  — 
7  have  a  crucifix!     Methinks  Jt  were  fitting 
The  deed,  the  vow,  the  symbol  of  the  deed, 
And  the  deed's  register  should  tally,  father! 

(draws  a  cross-handled  dagger  and  raises  it  on  high) 
Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine 
Is  written  in  Heaven ! 

MONK 

Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  unholy  —  thy  lips  are  livid  — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild  —  tempt  not  the  wrath  divine ! 
Pause  ere  too  late !  —  oh,  be  not  —  be  not  rash ! 
Swear  not  the  oath  —  oh,  swear  it  not ! 

LALAGE 

'T  is  sworn 
60 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

III 

An  apartment  in  a  palace.     POLITIAN  and  BALDAZZAR. 

BALDAZZAR 

Arouse  thee  now,  Politian ! 

Thou  must  not  —  nay  indeed,  indeed,  thou  shalt  not 
Give  way  unto  these  humors.     Be  thyself. 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live,  for  now  thou  diest. 

POLITIAN 

Not  so,  Baldazzar. 
Surely  I  live. 

BALDAZZAR 

Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 

POLITIAN 

Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 

To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honored  friend. 
Command  me,  sir !  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  do? 
At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my    forefathers  I  did  inherit, 
Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, 
And  be  no  more  Politian,  but  some  other. 
Command  me,  sir! 

BALDAZZAR 

To  the  field  then  — to  the  field  - 
To  the  senate  or  the  field. 

61 


POEMS 

POLITIAN 

Alas !  alas ! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there; 
There  is  an  imp  hath  followed  me  even  there; 
There  is  —  what  voice  was  that? 

BALDAZZAR 

I  heard  it  not. 

I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 
And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 

POLITIAN 

Then  I  but  dreamed. 

BALDAZZAR 

Give  not  thy  soul  to  dreams !  the  camp,  the  court, 
Befit   thee ;  Fame  awaits  thee ;  Glory  calls,  — 
And  her,  the  trumpet-tongued,  thou  wilt  not  hear 
In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 

POLITIAN 

It  is  a  phantom  voice !  — 
Didst  thou  not  hear  it  then? 

BALDAZZAR 

I  heard  it  not. 

POLITIAN 

Thou  heardst  it  not! — Baldazzar,  speak  no  more 

To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  courts. 

Oh !  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 

Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 

Of  the  populous  earth.     Bear  with  me  yet  awhile ! 

We  have  been  boys  together  —  school-fellows, 

And  now  are  friends,  yet  shall  not  be  so  long; 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

For  in  the  eternal  city  thou  shalt  do  me 
A  kind  and  gentle  office ;  and  a  Power  — 
A  Power  august,  benignant  and  supreme  — 
Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  further  duties 
Unto  thy  friend. 

BALDAZZAR 

Thou   speakest  a   fearful  riddle 
I  will  not  understand. 

POLITIAN 
Yet  now  as  fate 

Approaches,  and  the  Hours  are  breathing  low, 
The  sands  of  time  are  changed  to  golden  grains 
And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
I  cannot  die,  having  within  my  heart 
So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 
As  hath  been  kindled  within  it.     Methinks  the  air 
Is  balmier  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be; 
Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds; 
A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth, 
And  with  a  holier  lustre  the  quiet  moon 
Sitteth  in  Heaven.  —  Hist !  hist !  thou  canst  not  say 
Thou  nearest  not  now,  Baldazzar? 

BALDAZZAR 

Indeed,  I  hear  not. 

POLITIAN 

Not    hear    it !  —  listen    now  —  listen !  —  the    faintest 

sound 

And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard! 
A  lady's  voice!  and  sorrow  in  the  tone!  — 
Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell! 
Again !  again !  how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts !  that  eloquent  voice 


POEMS 

Surely  I  never  heard  —  yet  it  were  well, 
Had  I  but  heard  it  with  its  thrilling  tones 
In  earlier  days. 

BALDAZZAR 

I  myself  hear  it  now. 

Be  still !  —  the  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Proceeds  from  yonder  lattice,  which  you  may  gee 
Very  plainly  through  the  window;  it  belongs  — 
Does  it  not  —  unto  this  palace  of  the  Duke? 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  His  Excellency,  and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spoke 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 

POLITIAN 
Be  still !  —  it  comes  again. 

VOICE   (very  faintly) 
"  And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
Who  have  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay  —  say  nay !  " 

BALDAZZAR 

The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have  heard  it 
In  merry  England  —  never  so  plaintively. 
Hist !  hist !  it  comes  again. 

VOICE  (more  loudly) 
"  Is  it  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 
64 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

Who  have  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay — -say  nay!" 

BALDAZZAR 

'T  is  hushed,  and  all  is  still ! 

POLITIAN 

All  is  not  still. 

BALDAZZAR 

Let  us  go  down. 

POLITIAN 

Go  down,  Baldazzar,  go! 

BALDAZZAR 

The  hour  is  growing  late  —  the  Duke  awaits  us ; 
Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.     What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politian? 

VOICE  (distinctly) 
"Who  have  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among! 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong? 
Say  nay — say  nay!" 

BALDAZZAR 

Let  us  descend!  — 't  is  time.     Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Remember,  pray, 
Your   bearing   lately   savored   much   of   rudeness 
Unto  the  Duke.     Arouse  thee,  and  remember! 

65 


POEMS 

POLITIAN 

Remember?     I  do.     Lead  on!     I  do  remember. 

(going) 

Let  us  descend.     Believe  me,  I  would  give, 
Freely  would  give  the  broad  lands  of  my  earldom 
To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice ; 
"  To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue." 

BALDAZZAR 

Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 

Descend  with  me  —  the  Duke  may  be  offended. 
Let  us  go  down,  I  pray  you. 

VOICE  (loudly) 

"  Say  nay !  —  say  nay !  " 

POLITIAN  (aside) 
'T  is  strange !  —  't  is  very  strange  —  methought  the 

voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires  and  bade  me  stay. 

(approaching  the  window) 

Sweet  voice!  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. 
Now  be  this  fancy,  by  Heaven,  or  be  it  fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.     Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  the  Duke  for  me; 
I  go  not  down  to-night. 

BALDAZZAB 

Your  lordship's  pleasure 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good-night,  Politian. 

POLITIAN 

Good-night,  my  friend,  good-night. 

66 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 


IV 

The  gardens  of  a  palace  —  moonlight.    LALAGE  and  POLI 
TIAN. 

LALAGE 

And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  me,  Politian?  —  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  Lalage?  —  ah,  woe  —  ah,  woe  is  me! 
This  mockery  is  most  cruel,  most  cruel  indeed! 

POLITIAN 

Weep  not  !  oh,  sob  not  thus  !  —  thy  bitter  tears 
Will  madden  me.     Oh,  mourn  not,  Lalage; 
Be  comforted!     I  know  —  I  know  it  all, 
And  still  I  speak  of  love.    Look  at  me,  brightest 
And  beautiful  Lalage  !  turn  here  thine  eyes  ! 
Thou  askest  me  if  I   could   speak   of  love, 
Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen. 
Thou  askest  me  that  —  and  thus  I  answer  thee, 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee.         (kneeling) 
Sweet  Lalage,  /  love  thee  —  love  thee  —  love  thee; 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  weal  and  woe,  I  love  thee. 
Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 
Thrills  with  intenser  love  than  I  for  thee. 
Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 
Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 
Within  my  spirit  for  thee.     And  do  I  love?     (arising) 
Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee  —  even  for  thy  woes  — 
Thy  beauty,  and  thy  woes. 


Alas,  proud  Earl, 

Thou  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me! 

67 


POEMS 

How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 

Pure  and  reproachless  of  thy  princely  line, 

Could  the  dishonored  Lalage  abide, 

Thy  wife,   and   with  a   tainted   memory?  — 

My  seared  and  blighted  name,  how  would  it  tally 

With  the  ancestral  honors  of  thy  house, 

And  with  thy  glory? 

POLITIAN 

Speak  not  to  me  of  glory! 
I  hate  —  I  loathe  the  name ;  I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 
Art  thou  not  Lalage  and  I  Politian? 
Do  I  not  love  —  art  thou  not  beautiful  — 
What  need  we  more?     Ha!  glory! — now  speak  not 

of  it: 

By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn, 
By  all  my  wishes  now,  my  fears  hereafter, 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth  and  hope  in  heaven, 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in 
Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory 
And  trample  it  under  foot.     What  matters  it, 
What  matters  it,  my  fairest  and  my  best, 
That  we  go  down  unhonored  and  forgotten 
Into  the  dust  —  so  we  descend  together? 
Descend  together  —  and  then  —  and  then,  perchance  — 

LALAGE 

Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian? 

POLITIAN 

And  then,  perchance, 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwellings  of  the  blest, 

And   still 

68 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

LALAGE 

Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian? 

POLITIAN 

And  still  together  —  together! 

LALAGE 

Now,  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Thou  lovest  me !  and  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

POLITIAN 

Oh,  Lalage!  (throwing  himself  upon  his  knee) 
And  lovest  thou  me? 

LALAGE 

Hist!  hush!  within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  passed  - 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn,  and  slow,  and  noiseless, 
Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and  noiseless. 

(walks  across  and  returns) 
I  was  mistaken  —  't  was  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian ! 

POLITIAN 

My  Lalage  —  my  love!  why  art  thou  moved? 
Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale?    Not  Conscience'  self, 
Far  less  a  shadow  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 
Should  shake  the  firm  spirit  thus.    But  the  night  wind 
Is  chilly,  and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

LALAGE 

Politian ! 

Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.     Knowest  thou  the  land 
With  which  all  tongues  are  busy,  a  land  new  found, 

69 


POEMS 

Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa, 

A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west? 

A  fairy  land  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  sunshine, 

And  crystal  lakes,  and  over-arching  forests, 

And  mountains,  around  whose  towering  summits  the 

winds 

Of  Heaven  untrammelled  flow  —  which  air  to  breathe 
Is   happiness  now,   and  will  be  freedom  hereafter 
In  days  that  are  to  come? 

POLITIAN 

Oh,   wilt   thou,  wilt   thou 

Fly  to  that  Paradise,  my  Lalage  —  wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me?     There  care  shall  be  forgotten, 
And  sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all. 
And  life  shall  then  be  mine,  for  I  will  live 
For  thee,  and  in  thine  eyes ;  and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner,  but  the  radiant  Joys. 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the   angel  Hope 
Attend  thee  ever;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee 
And   worship    thee,    and    call    thee   my   beloved, 
My   own,   my   beautiful,   my  love,   my  wife, 
My  all ;  —  oh,  wilt  thou  —  wilt  thou,  Lalage, 
Fly  thither  with  me? 

LALAGE 

A   deed  is   to  be  done  — 
Castiglione  lives! 

POLITIAN 

And  he  shall  die!  [exit. 

LALAGE  (after  a  pause) 
«  And  —  he  —  shall  —  die  !  "  —  alas  ! 
Castiglione  die?     Who  spoke  the  words? 

70 


SCENES  FROM  «  POLITIAN  " 

Where  am  I?  —  what  was  it  he  said?  —  Politian! 

Thou  art  not  gone  —  thou  art  not  gone,  Politian ! 

I  feel  thou  art  not  gone  —  yet  dare  not  look, 

Lest  I  behold  thee  not ;  thou  couldst  not  go 

With  those  words  upon  thy  lips.    Oh,  speak  to  me ! 

And  let  me  hear  thy  voice  —  one  word,  one  word, 

To  say  thou  art  not  gone  —  one  little  sentence, 

To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn,  how  thou  dost  hate 

My  womanly  weakness.     Ha !  ha !  thou  art  not  gone  — 

Oh,  speak  to  me !     I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go  ! 

I  knew  thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  not,  durst  not  go ! 

Villain,  thou  art  not  gone  —  thou  mockest  me ! 

And  thus  I  clutch  thee  —  thus !-- He  is  gone,  he  is 

gone  — 
Gone  —  gone !     Where  am  I?  —  't  is  well  —  't  is  very 

well! 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen,  the  blow  be  sure, 
'T  is  well,  't  is  very  well  —  alas !  alas ! 


The  suburbs.    POLITIAN  alone. 

POLITIAN 

This  weakness   grows   upon  me.   I  am   faint, 
And  much,  I  fear  me,  ill  —  it  will  not  do 
To  die  ere  I  have  lived!     Stay,  stay  thy  hand, 
O  Azrael,  yet  awhile!     Prince  of  the  Powers 
Of  darkness  and  the  Tomb,  oh,  pity  me! 
Oh,  pity  me !  let  me  not  perish  now, 
In  the  budding  of  my  Paradisal  Hope ! 
Give  me  to  live  yet  —  yet  a  little  while ! 
'T  is  I  who  pray  for  life,  I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die! 

71 


POEMS 

Enter  BALDAZZAR 

What  sayeth  the  Count? 

(BALDAZZAR) 

That  knowing  no  cause  of  quarrel  or  of  feud 
Between  the  Earl  Politian  and  himself, 
He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 

POLITIAN 

What  didst  thou  say? 
What    answer    was    it    you    brought    me,    good    Bal- 

dazzar?  — 

With  what  excessive  fragrance  the  zephyr  comes 
Laden  from  yonder  bowers !  a  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks, 
No  mortal  eyes  have  seen!  —  what  said  the  Count? 

BALDAZZAR 

That  he,   Castiglione,  not  being  aware 

Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 

Of  quarrel,  between  your  lordship  and  himself, 

Cannot  accept  the  challenge. 

POLITIAN 

It   is   most   true  — 

All  this  is  very  true.  —  When  saw  you,  sir, 
When  saw  you  now,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Ungenial  Britain  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this,  so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds?  —  and  he  did  say? 

BALDAZZAR 

No  more,  my  lord,  than  I  have  told  you,  sir: 
The   Count   Castiglione  will   not   fight, 
Having  no  cause  for  quarrel. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

POLITIAN 

Now  this  is  true  — 

All  very  true.     Thou  art  my  friend,   Baldazzar, 
And  I  have  not  forgotten  it;  thou  'It  do  me 
A  piece  of  service?     Wilt  thou  go  back  and  say 
Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain?  thus  much,  I  prythee,  say 
Unto  the  Count  —  it  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 

BALDAZZAR 

My  lord !  my  friend !  — 

POLITIAN    (aside) 

'Tis  he  —  he  comes  himself!  (aloud)  Thou  reason- 
est  well. 

I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say  —  not  send  the  mes 
sage  — 

Well !  —  I  will  think  of  it  —  I  will  not  send  it. 

Now,  prythee,  leave  me  —  hither  doth  come  a  person 

With   whom   affairs   of   a   most   private   nature 

I  would  adjust. 

BALDAZZAR 

I  go  —  to-morrow  we  meet  — 
Do  we  not  ?  —  at  the  Vatican  — 

POLITIAN 

At  the  Vatican. 

[exit  BALDAZZAR. 

Enter  CASTIGLIONE 

CASTIGLIONE 

The  Earl  of  Leicester  here! 

73 


POEMS 

rOLITIAN 

I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  thou  seest  — 
Dost  thou  not?  —  that  I  am  here. 

CASTIGLIONE 

My  lord,  some  strange, 

Some   singular  mistake  —  misunderstanding  — 
Hath  without  doubt  arisen;  thou  hast  been  urged 
Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 
To  me,  Castiglione;  the  bearer  being 
Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 
Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thee  in  this  thing, 
Having  given  thee  no  offence.     Ha !  —  am  I  right  ? 
'T  was  a  mistake? — undoubtedly — we  all 
Do  err  at  times. 

POLITIAN 
Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more! 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ha !  —  draw  ?  —  and  villain  ?  have  at  thee  then  at  once, 
Proud  Earl!  (draws) 

POLITIAN   (drawing) 

Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thee 
In  the  name  of  Lalage ! 

CASTIGLIONE    (letting  fall   his   sword   and   recoiling 
to  the  extremity  of  the  stage) 

Of  Lalage! 

Hold   off  thy   sacred  hand!  —  avaunt,   I   say! 
Avaunt  — I  will  not  fight  thee  —  indeed,  I  dare  not. 

74 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN" 

POLITIAN 

Thou  will  not  fight  with  me,  didst  say,  Sir  Count? 
Shall  I  be  baffled  thus  ?  —  now  this  is  well ; 
Didst  say  thou  darest  not  ?     Ha ! 

CASTIGLIONE 

I  dare  not — dare  not  — 

Hold  off  thy  hand  —  with  that  beloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee. 
I  cannot  —  dare  not. 

POLITIAN 

Now  by  my  halidom 
I  do  believe  thee !  —  coward,  I  do  believe  thee ! 

CASTIGLIONE 

Ha !  —  coward !  —  this  may  not  be ! 

(clutches  his  sword  and  staggers  towards  POLI 
TIAN,  but  his  purpose  is  changed  before  reaching 
him,  and  he  falls  upon  his  knee  at  the  feet  of 
the  EARL) 

Alas !  my  lord, 

It  is  —  it  is  —  most  true.     In  such  a  cause 
I  am  the  veriest  coward.    Oh,  pity  me ! 

POLITIAN  (greatly  softened) 
Alas !  —  I  do  —  indeed  I  pity  thee. 

CASTIGLIONE 

And  Lalage  — 

POLITIAN 

Scoundrel !  —  arise  and  die ! 

CASTIGLIONE 

It  needeth  not  be;  thus  —  thus — oh,  let  me  die 
Thus  on  my  bended  knee !    It  were  most  fitting 

75 


POEMS 

That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish ; 
For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 
Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.     Strike  thou  home  — 

(baring  his  bosom) 

Here  is  no  let  or  hindrance  to  thy  weapon  — 
Strike  home.     I  will  not  fight  thee. 

POLITIAN 

Now,  's  death  and  hell! 

Am  I  not  —  am  I  not  sorely  —  grievously  tempted 
To  take  thee  at  thy  word?     But  mark  me,  sir: 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus.     Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets  before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I  '11  follow  thee  — 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  I  '11  follow  thee 
Even  unto  death.    Before  those  whom  thou  lovest, 
Before  all  Rome  I  '11  taunt  thee,  villain,  —  I  '11  taunt 

thee, 

Dost  hear?  with  cowardice  —  thou  wilt  not  fight  me? 
Thou  liest !  thou  shalt !  [exit. 

CASTIGUONE 

Now  this,  indeed,  is  just  — 
Most  righteous,  and  most  just  —  avenging  Heaven ! 


Ill 

INVOCATIONS 


INVOCATIONS 

TO    HELEN 

TTELEN,  J^gJbeauty  is  to  me 

•*-  •*•   Like  those"  NicEean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 

The~weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 

To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo!  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land! 


TO  F 

BELOVED !  amid  the  earnest  woes 
That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path 
(Drear  path,  alas!  where  grows 
Not  even  one  lonely  rose), 

My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 
In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 
An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

And  thus  thy  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea,  — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
With  storms,  but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest   skies   continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


80 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

THOU  wast  all  that  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine: 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A   fountain   and   a   shrine 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last! 

Ah,  starry  Hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
"  On !  on !  "  —  but  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf!)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast. 

For,  alas!  alas!  with  me 

The  light  of  Life  is  o'er ! 
No  more  —  no  more  —  no  more  — 
(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 

To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 
Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tr&e, 

Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar. 

And  all  my  days  are  trances, 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  gray  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams  — 
In  what  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 
81 


TO  F s  S.  O d 

THOU  wouldst  be  loved?  —  then  let  thy  heart 
From  its  present  pathway  part  not: 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art, 
Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 
Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise, 
And  love — a  simple  duty. 


A  VALENTINE 

FOR  her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous  eyes, 
Brightly  expressive  as  the  twins  of  Leda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that  nestling  lies 

Upon  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines !  they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine,  a  talisman,  an  amulet 

That  must  be  worn  at  heart.     Search  well  the  meas 
ure — 

The  words  —  the  syllables.     Do  not  forget 
The  trivialest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labor : 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  might  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 

If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Enwritten  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes  scintillating  soul,  there  lie  perdus 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  the  hearing 

Of  poets,  by  poets  —  as  the  name  is  a  poet's,  too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like  the  knight  Pinto,  Mendez  Ferdinando,- 
Still  form  a  synonym  for  Truth.  —  Cease  trying ! 

You  will  not  read  the  riddle,  though  you  do  the  best 
you  can  do. 


83 


AN  ENIGMA 

"QELDOM  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 

O    "  Half  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet. 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once 

As  easily  as  through  a  Naples  bonnet  — 

Trash  of  all  trash!  how  can  a  lady  don  it? 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff, 
Owl-downy  nonsense  that   the   faintest   puff 

Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it." 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 
The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles,  ephemeral  and  so  transparent; 

But  this  is,  now,  you  may  depend  upon  it, 
Stable,  opaque,  immortal  —  all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within  't. 


84 


TO  HELEN 

I    SAW  thee  once  —  once  only  —  years  ago : 
I  must  not  say  how  many  —  but  not  many. 
It  was  a  July  midnight;  and  from  out 
A  full-orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring 
Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 
There  fell  a  silvery-silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude  and   sultriness   and  slumber, 
Upon  the  upturned  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe :  \ 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their   odorous   souls   in   an   ecstatic   death: 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 
I   saw  thee  half  reclining;  while   the  moon 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  the  roses, 
And  on  thine  own,  upturned  —  alas,  in  sorrow ! 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight  — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 
That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate 
To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses? 
No  footstep  stirred :  the  hated  world  all  slept, 
Save  only  thee  and  me  —  O  Heaven !  0  God ! 
How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  those  two  words !  — 

85 


INVOCATIONS 

Save  only  thee  and  me.     I  paused,  I  looked, 
And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 
(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted!) 
The  pearly  lustre  of  the  moon  went  out: 
The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths, 
The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees, 
Were  seen  no  more:  the  very  roses'  odors 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  airs. 
All,  all  expired  save  thee  —  save  less  than  thou: 
Save  only  the  divine  light  in  thine  eyes, 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes: 
I  saw  but  them  —  they  were  the  world  to  me : 
I  saw  but  them,  saw  only  them  for  hours, 
Saw  only  them  until  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 
Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres; 
How  dark  a  woe,  yet  how  sublime  a  hope ; 
How   silently   serene   a   sea   of  pride; 
How  daring  an  ambition ;  yet  how  deep, 
How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love! 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight, 
Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud; 
And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 
Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained: 
They  would  not  go  —  they  never  yet  have  gone ; 
Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 
They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since; 
They  follow  me  —  they  lead  me  through  the  years ; 
They  are  my  ministers  —  yet  I  their  slave ; 
Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle  — 
My  duty,  to  be  saved  by  their  bright  light, 
And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 
And  sanctified  in   their  elysian   fire; 

86 


TO  HELEN 

They  fill  my  soul  with  beauty  (which  is  hope), 
And  are,  far  up  in  heaven,  the  stars  I  kneel  to 
In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night; 
While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 
I  see  them  still  —  two  sweetly  scintillant 
Venuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun. 


87 


TO  

I    HEED  not  that  my  earthly  lot 
Hath  little  of  Earth  in  it, 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 

In  the  hatred  of  a  minute : 
I  mourn  not  that  the  desolate 
Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I, 
But  that  you  sorrow  for  my  fate 
Who   am   a   passer-by. 


88 


TO  M.  L.  S 

OF  all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning ; 
Of  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night, 
The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 
The  sacred  sun;  of  all  who,  weeping,  bless  thee 
Hourly  for  hope,  for  life,  ah!  above  all, 
For  the   resurrection  of  deep-buried  faith 
In  truth,  in  virtue,  in  humanity ; 
Of  all  who,  on  despair's  unhallowed  bed 
Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 
At  thy  soft-murmured  words,  "  Let  there  be  light ! " 
At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 
In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes; 
Of  all  who  owe  thee  most,  whose  gratitude 
Nearest  resembles  worship,   oh,  remember 
The  truest,  the  most  fervently  devoted, 
And  think  that  these  weak  lines  are  written  by  him: 
By  him,  who,  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 
His  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 


89 


r 


TO 


NOT  long  ago  the  writer  of  these  lines, 
In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 
Maintained  "  the  power  of  words  "  —  denied  that  ever 
A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 
Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue: 
And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 
Two  words,  two  foreign  soft  dissyllables, 
Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 
By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "dew 
That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill," 
Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart 
Unthought-like     thoughts,     that     are     the     souls     of 

thought,  — 

Richer,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 
Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israfel 
(Who  has  "  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures  "), 
Could  hope  to  utter.     And  I  —  my  spells  are  broken ; 
The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand ; 
With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 
I  cannot  write  —  I  cannot  speak  or  think  — 
Alas,  I  cannot  feel ;  for  't  is  not  feeling,  — 
This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 
Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate   of  dreams, 
Gazing  entranced  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 
And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right, 
Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 
Amid  empurpled  vapors,  far  away 
To  where  the  prospect  terminates  —  thee  only. 

90 


FOR  ANNIE0 

THANK  Heaven!  the  crisis, 
The  danger,  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last, 

And  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 
Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly  I  know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length: 
But  no  matter !  —  I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead, 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are   quieted   now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart :  —  ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing! 
91 


INVOCATIONS 

The  sickness,  the  nausea, 

The  pitiless  pain, 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain, 
With  the  fever  called  "Living" 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh!  of  all  tortures, 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has   abated  —  the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  napthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst: 
I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst: 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 

Feet  under  ground, 
From  a  cavern  not  very  far 

Down  under  ground. 

And  ah !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy, 

And  narrow  my  bed; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed: 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes, 
92 


FOR  ANNIE 

Forgetting,  or  never 

Regretting,  its  roses: 
Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses; 

For  now,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies : 
A  rosemary  odor, 

Commingled  with  pansies, 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie, 
Drowned  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast, 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished, 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm, 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 
93 


INVOCATIONS 

And  I  lie  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead; 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead, 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie: 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie, 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


94. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  * 

BECAUSE  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 
The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find  among  their  burning  terms  of  love 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you  — 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death  installed  you 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother,  my  own  mother,  who  died  early, 

Was  but  the  mother  of  myself;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 
Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  soul-life. 


95 


IV 
EARLY  POEMS 


NOTE:   1845 

PRIVATE  reasons  —  some  of  which  have  reference  to  the 
sin  of  plagiarism,  and  others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first 
poems  —  have  induced  me,  after  some  hesitation,  to  re- 
publish  these,  the  crude  compositions  of  my  earliest  boy 
hood.  They  are  printed  verbatim  —  without  alteration 
from  the  original  edition  —  the  date  of  which  is  too  remote 
to  be  judiciously  acknowledged. 

E.  A.  P. 


TAMERLANE 

KIND  solace  in  a  dying  hour ! 
Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme; 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revelled  in; 
I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream. 
You  call  it  hope  —  that  fire  of  fire ! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire ; 
If  I  can  hope  —  O  God !  I  can  — 

Its  fount  is  holier,  more  divine; 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 
But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bowed  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 
O  yearning  heart,  I  did  inherit 

Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 
The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 
Amid  the  jewels  of  my  throne  — 
Halo  of  Hell  —  and  with  a  pain 
Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again, 
O  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours ! 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  thy  emptiness  —  a  knell. 
99 


EARLY  POEMS 

I  have  not  always  been  as  now: 
The  fevered  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claimed  and  won  usurpingly. 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 
Rome  to  the  Caesar,  this  to  me?  — 

The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 

On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life: 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 
Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head; 
And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 

And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 

So  late  from  Heaven  —  that  dew  —  it  fell 

('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 
Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 

While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 
From  clouds  that  hung,  like  banners,  o'er, 
Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 
The  pageantry  of  monarchy, 
'And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 
Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 

Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice, 
My  own  voice,  silly  child!  was  swelling 
(Oh,  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  Victory ! 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
Unsheltered,  and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind: 

It  was  but  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 
100 


TAMERLANE 

Laurels  upon  me:  and  the  rush, 

The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air, 
Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crush 

Of  empires  —  with  the  captive's  prayer, 
The  hum  of  suitors,  and  the  tone 
Of  flattery  'round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurped  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deemed,  since  I  have  reached  to  power, 
My  innate  nature  —  be  it  so : 

But,  father,  there  lived  one  who,  then, 
Then,  in  my  boyhood,  when  their  fire 
Burned  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth,  expire) 

E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 

In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words  —  alas  !  —  to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well. 
Nor  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 
Are  —  shadows  on  the  unstable  wind : 
Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters,  with  their  meaning,  melt 

To  fantasies  with  none. 

Oh,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love ! 

Love,  as  in  infancy,  was  mine: 
'T  was  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy ;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 
101 


POEMS 


Were  incense,  then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright, 
Pure  as  her  young  example  taught: 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 

Trust  to  the  fire  within,  for  light? 

We  grew  in  age  and  love  together, 

Roaming  the  forest  and  the  wild  ; 
My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather; 

And  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smiled, 
And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 
7  saw  no  Heaven  but  in  her  eyes. 
Young  Love's  first  lesson  is  the  heart  : 

For  'mid  that  sunshine  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I  'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears, 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest, 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her  —  who  asked  no  reason  why, 
But  turned  on  me  her  quiet  eye. 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When  on  the  mountain  peak  alone 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone,  — 
I  had  no  being  but  in  thee  : 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth,  the  air,  the  sea,  — 

Its  joy,  its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure,  the  ideal 

Dim  vanities  of  dreams  by  night, 
And  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real 
102 


TAMERLANE 

(Shadows,  and  a  more  shadowy  light), 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 

And  so  confusedly  became 

Thine  image,  and  a  name,  a  name,  — 
Two  separate  yet  most  intimate  things. 

I  was  ambitious  —  have  you  known 

The  passion,  father  ?    You  have  not. 
A  cottager,  I  marked  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 

And  murmured  at  such  lowly  lot ; 
But,  just  like  any  other  dream, 

Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 
My  own  had  passed,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  through 
The  minute,  the  hour,  the  day,  oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness. 

We  walked  together  on  the  crown 

Of  a  high  mountain  which  looked  down, 

Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 
Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills  — 

The  dwindled  hills !  begirt  with  bowers 
And  shouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 
I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically,  in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 

The  moment's  converse;  in  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelessly, 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own ; 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek  to  me 

Seemed  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 
103 


EARLY  POEMS 

I  wrapped  myself  in  grandeur  then 
And  donned  a  visionary  crown ; 
Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me ; 
But  that,  among  the  rabble  —  men, 

Lion  ambition  is  chained  down 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand: 
Not  so  in  deserts  where  the  grand, 
The  wild,  the  terrible,  conspire 
.With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

Look  'round  thee  now  on  Samarcand ! 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities?  in  her  hand 

Their  destinies?  in  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known, 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone? 
Falling,  her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne ! 

And  who  her  sovereign?     Timour  —  he 
Whom  the  astonished  people  saw 

Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily 
A  diademed  outlaw! 

O  human  love,  thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven ! 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-withered  plain, 
And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness ! 
Idea!  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth  - 
Farewell !  for  I  have  won  the  Earth. 
104 


TAMERLANE 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  towered,  could  see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly, 

And  homeward  turned  his  softened  eye. 
'T  was  sunset :  when  the  sun  will  part, 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  soul  will  hate  the  evening  mist 
So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 
To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 
To  those  whose  spirits  hearken)  as  one 
Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly, 
But  cannot,  from  a  danger  nigh. 

What  though  the  moon  —  the  white  moon 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon? 
Her  smile  is  chilly,  and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one ; 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known, 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown. 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noonday  beauty  —  which  is  all ! 

I  reached  my  home,  my  home  no  more, 

For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 
I  passed  from  out  its  mossy  door, 

And,  though  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 
A  voice  came  from  the  threshold  stone 
Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known : 
105 


EARLY  POEMS 

Oh,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show, 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 
An  humbler  heart  —  a  deeper  woe. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe  — 

I  know,  for  Death,  who  comes  for  me 

From  regions  of  the  blest  afar 
Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 
Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 

And  rays  of  truth  you  cannot  see 

Are  flashing  through  Eternity  — 
I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 
A  snare  in  every  human  path; 
Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove 
I  wandered  of  the  idol,  Love, 
Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 
With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 
From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 
Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 
Above  with  trellised  rays  from  Heaven 
No  mote  may  shun,  no  tiniest  fly, 
The  lightning  of  his  eagle  eye,  — 
How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 

Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 
Till,  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 

In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair? 


106 


TO  SCIENCE 

A  PROLOGUE  TO  "  AL  AARAAF  " 

SCIENCE !  true  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art, 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart,      >   , 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities?          7^~~ 
How  should  he  love  thee?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 

Who  wouldst  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jewelled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car, 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind-tree? 


107 


AL  AARAAF 

PART  I 

OH !  nothing  earthly  save  the  ray 
(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  Beauty's  eye, 
As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 
Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy: 
Oh !  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 
Of  melody  in  woodland  rill, 
Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 
Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed 
That,  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 
Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell: 
Oh!  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours, 
Yet  all  the  beauty,  all  the  flowers 
That  list  our  love,  and  deck  our  bowers, 
Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar 
The  wandering  star. 

'T  was  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace :  for  there 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns,  a  temporary  rest, 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away  —  away  —  'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean   splendor   o'er   the   unchained   soul, — 
The  soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destined  eminence,  — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time,  she  rode, 
And  late  to  ours,  the  favored  one  of  God; 
But,  now,  the  ruler  of  an  anchored  realm, 

108 


AL  AARAAF 

She  throws  aside  the  sceptre,  leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limbs. 

Now  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  Earth, 
Whence  sprang  the  "  Idea  of  Beauty  "  into  birth 
(Falling  in  wreaths  through  many  a  startled  star, 
Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until,  afar, 
It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there  dwelt), 
She  looked  into  Infinity,  and  knelt. 
Rich  clouds,  for  canopies,  about  her  curled, 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world, 
Seen  but  in  beauty,  not  impeding  sight 
Of  other  beauty  glittering  through  the  light,  — 
A  wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around, 
And  all  the  opaled  air  in  color  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers:  of  lilies  such  as  reared  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 
Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of  —  deep  pride  — 
Of  her  who  loved  a  mortal,  and  so  died; 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Upreared  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees,  — 
And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnamed, 
Inmate  of  highest  stars  where  erst  it  shamed 
All  other  loveliness ;  —  its  honeyed  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew), 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropped  from  Heaven, 
And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiven 
In  Trebizond,  and  on  a  sunny  flower 
So  like  its  own  above  that,  to  this  hour, 
It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 

109 


EARLY  POEMS 

With  madness  and  unwonted  revery; 

In  Heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 

And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant  in  grief 

Disconsolate  linger,  —  grief  that  hangs  her  head, 

Repenting  follies  that  full  long  have  fled, 

Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 

Like  guilty  beauty,  chastened,  and  more  fair :  — 

Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 

She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night ; 

And  Clytia,  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 

While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run ; 

And  that  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  Earth, 

And  died  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth, 

Bursting  its   odorous  heart  in   spirit  to  wing 

Its  way  to  Heaven  from  garden  of  a  king; 

And  Valisnerian  lotus,  thither  flown 

From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Rhone; 

And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume,  Zante,  — 

Isola  d'oro,  fior  di  Levante ! 

And  the  Nelumbo  bud  that  floats  forever 

With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river:  — 

Fair  flowers,  and  fairy !  to  whose  care  is  given 

To  bear  the  Goddess'  song,  in  odors,  up  to  Heaven 

"  Spirit,  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair 

In  beauty  vie! 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue, 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  turneth  at  the  view 

Of   thy  barrier   and   thy   bar, — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
110 


AL  AARAAF 

From  their  pride,  and  from  their  throne, 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last, — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire, 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part, — 
Who  livest — that  we  know  — 

In  Eternity  —  we   feel  — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What   spirit   shall   reveal? 
Though  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 

Thy  messenger,  hath  known, 
Have  dreamed   for  thy   Infinity 

A  model  of  their  own, 
Thy  will  is  done,  O  God ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Through  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rode 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee  — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire  and  so  be 

A  partner  of  thy  throne  — 
By  winged  Fantasy 

My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 

In  the  environs  of  Heaven." 

She   ceased  —  and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek, 
Abashed,  amid  the  lilies  there  to  seek 
A  shelter  from  the  fervor  of  His  eye ; 
For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 
She    stirred   not  —  breathed   not — for   a   voice   was 

there, 
How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air! 

Ill 


EARLY  POEMS 

A  sound  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear, 

Which  dreamy  poets  name  "  the  music  of  the  sphere !  " 

Ours  is  a  world  of  words :  Quiet  we  call 

"  Silence  "  —  which  is  the  merest  word  of  all. 

All  Nature  speaks,  and  even  ideal  things 

Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings; 

But  ah!  not  so  when  thus  in  realms  on  high 

The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 

And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky:  — 

"  What  though  in  worlds  which  sightless  cycles  run, 
Linked  to   a  little  system,   and  one  sun,  — 
Where  all  my  love  is  folly,  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder-cloud, 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  and  the  ocean-wrath,  — 
(Ah!  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path?) 
What  though  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 
The  sands  of  Time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 
Yet   thine   is   my   resplendency,   so   given 
To  bear  my  secrets  through  the  upper  Heaven 
Leave  tenantless  thy  crystal  home,  and  fly, 
With  all  thy  train,  athwart  the  moony  sky, 
Apart  —  like  fireflies  in  Sicilian  night, 
And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 
Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 
To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle,  and  so  be 
To  every  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban 
Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man ! " 

Up   rose  the  maiden  in  the   yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve !    On  Earth  we  plight 
Our  faith  to  one  love,  and  one  moon  adore: 
The  birthplace  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 


AL  AARAAF 

And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way,  but  left  not  yet  her  Therasasan  reign. 


PART  II 

HIGH  on  a  mountain  of  enamelled  head,  — 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 
Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  his  ease, 
Raising  his  heavy  eyelid,  starts  and  sees 
With  many  a  muttered  "  hope  to  be  forgiven," 
What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  Heaven, — 
Of  rosy  head  that,  towering  far  away 
Into  the  sun-lit  ether,  caught  the  ray 
Of  sunken  suns  at  eve,  at  noon  of  night, 
While  the  moon  danced  with  the  fair  stranger  light ; 
Upreared  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 
Of  gorgeous  columns  on  the  unburdened  air, 
Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 
Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 
And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 
Of  molten  stars  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 
Through  the  ebon  air,  besilvering  the  pall 
Of  their   own   dissolution,   while  they   die, — 
Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 
A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  Heaven  let  down, 
Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown ; 
A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 
Looked  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  chain 
And  hallowed  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 
Save  when,  between  the  empyrean  and  that  ring, 
Some  eager  spirit  flapped  his  dusky  wing. 
But  on  the  pillars  seraph  eyes  have  seen 

113 


EARLY  POEMS 

The  dimness  of  this  world ;  that  grayish  green 
That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 
Lurked  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave; 
And   every   sculptured   cherub   thereabout 
That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out, 
Seemed  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche,  — 
Achaian  statues  in  a  world  so  rich! 
Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis, 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah!  Oh,  the  wave 
Is  now  upon  thee  —  but  too  late  to  save ! 

Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night : 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  gray  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco, 
Of  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago ; 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim, 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud; 
Is  not  its  form — its  voice  —  most  palpable  and  loud? 

But  what  is  this?  —  it  cometh,  and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it  —  't  is  the  rush  of  wings: 
A  pause  —  and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain, 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her   cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips   apart; 
And  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart. 
Within  the  centre  of  that  hall  to  breathe 
She  paused  and  panted,  Zanthe!  all  beneath 
The  fairy  light  that  kissed  her  golden  hair, 
And  longed  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there. 

Young  flowers  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  night,  and  tree  to  tree; 


AL  AARAAF 

Fountains  were  gushing  music   as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove,  or  moon-lit  dell; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  material  things, 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls  and  angel  wings, 
And  sound  alone,  that  from  the  spirit  sprang, 
Bore  burden  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang: 

"  'Neath  blue-bell  or  streamer, 

Or  tufted  wild  spray 
That  keeps  from  the  dreamer 

The  moonbeam  away, 
Bright  beings!  that  ponder, 

With  half  closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  skies, 
Till  they  glance  through  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow 
Like  —  eyes   of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now,  — 
Arise  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours! 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumbered  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too  — 
Oh,  how,  without  you,  Love! 
Could  angels  be  blest?  — 
Those  kisses   of  true  love 
That   lulled   ye   to   rest! 
Up!  shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing! 
The  dew  of  the  night, 

It  would  weigh  down  your  flight; 
115 


EARLY  POEMS 

And  true  love  caresses, 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 
But  lead  on  the  heart. 

"  Ligeia !     Ligeia ! 

Oh,  leave  them  apart  — 

My  beautiful  one! 
Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run, 
Oh,   is   it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  albatross, 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there? 

"Ligeia!  wherever 

Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep, 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  thy  vigilance  keep: 
The  sound  of  the  rain, 

Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower 
And    dances    again 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower, 
The  murmur   that   springs 

From   the   growing   of   grass, 
Are  the  music  of  things, 

But  are  modelled,  alas ! 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 
116 


AL  AARAAF 

Oh,  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray, — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles, 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That   en  jewel   its   breast! 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade, 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid; 
Some  have  left  the  cool  glade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee ; 
Arouse   them,   my   maiden, 

On  moorland  and  lea! 
Go!  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, 
The  musical  number 

They  slumbered  to  hear: 
For  what  can  awaken 

An    angel    so    soon, 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test,  — 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lulled  him  to  rest? 

Spirits  in  wing,  and  angels  to  the  view, 
A  thousand  seraphs  burst  the  empyrean  through,  - 
Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  flight, 
Seraphs  in  all  but  "  Knowledge,"  the  keen  light 
That  fell,  refracted,  through  thy  bounds  afar, 
O   Death,   from   eye   of   God  upon   that   star: 
Sweet  was  that  error,  sweeter  still  that  death ; 

117 


EARLY  POEMS 

Sweet  was  that  error — even  with  us  the  breath 
Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy, — 
To  them  't  were  the  Simoom,  and  would  destroy. 
For  what  (to  them)   availeth  it  to  know 
That  Truth  is  Falsehood,  or  that  Bliss  is  Woe? 
Sweet  was  their  death  —  with  them  to  die  was  rife 
With  the  last  ecstasy  of  satiate  life; 
Beyond  that  death  no  immortality, 
But  sleep  that  pondereth  and  is  not  "  to  be ;  " 
And  there,  oh,  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell, 
Apart  from  Heaven's  Eternity  —  and  yet  how  far  from 
Hell! 

What  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn? 
But  two ;  they  fell ;  for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 
To   those   who   hear   not   for   their   beating  hearts; 
A  maiden-angel  and  her  seraph-lover. 
Oh,  where  (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies  over) 
Was  Love,  the  blind,  near  sober  Duty  known? 
Unguided    Love   hath    fallen   'mid    "tears    of   perfect 


He  was  a  goodly  spirit  —  he  who  fell : 
A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well, 
A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above, 
A  dreamer  in  the  moonbeam  by  his  love. 
What  wonder?  for  each  star  is  eye-like  there, 
And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  Beauty's  hair; 
And  they,  and  every  mossy  spring  were  holy 
To  his  love-haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 
The  night  had  found  (to  him  a  night  of  woe) 
Upon  a  mountain  crag  young  Angelo ; 
Beetling  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 
And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  beneath  it  lie. 

118 


AL  AARAAF 

Here   sate  he  with  his  love,  his   dark  eye  bent 
With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament ; 
Now  turned  it  upon  her,  but  ever  then 
It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  EARTH  again. 

66  lanthe,  dearest,  see,  how  dim  that  ray ! 
How  lovely  't  is  to  look  so  far  away ! 
She  seemed  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 
I  left  her  gorgeous  halls,  nor  mourned  to  leave. 
That  eve,  that  eve,  I  should  remember  well, 
The  sun-ray  dropped  in  Lemnos  with  a  spell 
On  the  arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 
Wherein  I  sate,  and  on  the  draperied  wall, 
And  on  my  eyelids.     Oh,  the  heavy  light, 
How  drowsily  it  weighed  them  into  night ! 
On  flowers  before,  and  mist,  and  love,  they  ran 
With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan. 
But  oh,  that  light !  I  slumbered ;  Death,  the  while, 
Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle 
So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 
Awoke  that  slept,  or  knew  that  he  was  there. 

"  The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 
Was  a  proud  temple  called  the  Parthenon ; 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  columned  wall 
Than  even  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal ; 
And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthrall, 
Thence  sprang  I  as  the  eagle  from  his  tower, 
And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  I  hung, 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung, 
Unrolling  as  a  chart  unto  my  view; 
Tenantless   cities   of  the  desert  too! 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me  then, 
And  half  I  wished  to  be  again  of  men." 

119 


EARLY  POEMS 

"My  Angelo!  and  why  of  them  to  be? 
A  brighter  dwelling-place  is  here  for  thee, 
And  greener  fields  than  in  yon  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness,  and  passionate  love." 

"  But  list,  lanthe !  when  the  air  so  soft 
Failed  as  my  pennoned  spirit  leapt  aloft, 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy  —  but  the  world 
I   left   so  late  was   into   chaos   hurled, 
Sprang   from  her   station,    on   the   winds   apart, 
And  rolled,  a  flame,  the  fiery  Heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to  soar, 
And  fell  —  not  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 
But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion,  through 
Light,  brazen  rays,  this  golden  star  unto; 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours, 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours; 
Dread  star !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Dsedalion  on  the  timid  Earth." 

"  We  came,  and  to  thy  Earth  —  but  not  to  us 
Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss: 
We  came,  my  love;  around,  above,  below, 
Gay  firefly  of  the  night,  we  come  and  go, 
Nor  ask  a  reason  save  the  angel-nod 
She  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God. 
But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurled 
Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairier  world ! 
Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  angel  eyes 
Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 
When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 
Headlong   thitherward   o'er   the   starry   sea ; 
But  when  its  glory  swelled  upon  the  sky, 
As  glowing  Beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye, 

120 


AL  AARAAF 

We  paused  before  the  heritage  of  men, 

And  thy  star  trembled  —  as  doth  Beauty  then !  " 

Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whiled  away 
The  night  that  waned,  and  waned,  and  brought  no  day. 
They  fell :  for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  imparts 
Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 


121 


'THE     HAPPIEST     DAY,      THE     HAPPIEST 
HOUR  " 

THE   happiest  day,  the  happiest  hour 
My  seared  and  blighted  heart  hath  known, 
The  highest  hope  of  pride  and  power, 
I  feel  hath  flown. 

Of  power,  said  I?  yes !  such  I  ween ; 

But  they  have  vanished  long,  alas ! 
The  visions  of  my  youth  have  been  — 

But  let  them  pass. 

And,  pride,  what  have  I  now  with  thee? 

Another  brow  may  even  inherit 
The  venom  thou  hast  poured  on  me  — 

Be  still,  my  spirit! 

The  happiest  day,  the  happiest  hour 
Mine  eyes  shall  see  —  have  ever  seen, 

The  brightest  glance  of  pride  and  power, 
I  feel  —  have  been. 

But  were  that  hope  of  pride  and  power 

Now  offered,  with  the  pain 
Even  then  I  felt,  —  that  brightest  hour 

I  would  not  live  again. 

For  on  its  wing  was  dark  alloy, 

And,  as  it  fluttered,  fell 
An  essence,  powerful  to  destroy 

A  soul  that  knew  it  well. 


STANZAS 

How  often  we  forget  all  time,  when  lone 

Admiring   Nature's   universal   throne; 

Her    woods  —  her    wilds  —  her    mountains  —  the    intense 

Reply  of  HERS  to  OUR  intelligence! 

BYRON:  The  Island. 


N  youth  have  I  known  one  with  whom  the  Earth, 

In  secret,  communing  held,  as  he  with  it, 
In  daylight,  and  in  beauty  from  his  birth ; 
Whose  fervid,  flickering  torch  of  life  was  lit 
From  the  sun  and  stars,  whence  he  had  drawn  forth 
A  passionate  light  —  such  for  his  spirit  was  fit  — 
And  yet  that  spirit  knew  not,  in  the  hour 
Of  its  own  fervor,  what  had  o'er  it  power. 


Perhaps  it  may  be  that  my  mind  is  wrought 
To  a  fever  by  the  moonbeam  that  hangs  o'er ; 
But  I  will  half  believe  that  wild  light  fraught 
With  more  of  sovereignty  than  ancient  lore 
Hath  ever  told ;  or  is  it  of  a  thought 
The  unembodied  essence,  and  no  more, 
That  with  a  quickening  spell  doth  o'er  us  pass 
As  dew  of  the  night-time  o'er  the  summer  grass? 


EARLY  POEMS 


Doth  o'er  us  pass,  when,  as  the  expanding  eye 
To  the  loved  object,  so  the  tear  to  the  lid 
Will  start,  which  lately  slept  in  apathy? 
And  yet  it  need  not  be  —  that  object  —  hid 
From  us  in  life,  but  common  —  which  doth  lie 
Each  hour  before  us  —  but  then  only  bid 
With  a  strange  sound,  as  of  a  harp-string  broken, 
To  awake  us.    'T  is  a  symbol  and  a  token 


Of  what  in  other  worlds  shall  be,  and  given 
In  beauty  by  our  God  to  those  alone 
Who  otherwise  would  fall  from  life  and  Heaven, 
Drawn  by  their  heart's  passion,  and  that  tone, 
That  high  tone  of  the  spirit,  which  hath  striven, 
Though  not  with  Faith,  with  godliness,  —  whose  throne 
With  desperate  energy  't  hath  beaten  down; 
Wearing  its  own  deep  feeling  as  a  crown. 


EVENING  STAR 


''"TT^WAS  noontide  of  summer, 
•*•    And  stars,  in  their  orbits, 
Shone  pale,  through  the  light 
Of  the  brighter,  cold  moon, 

'Mid  planets  her  slaves, 
Herself  in  the  Heavens, 
Her  beam  on  the  waves. 

I  gazed  awhile 

On  her  cold  smile, 
Too  cold  —  too  cold  for  me  ; 

There  passed,  as  a  shroud, 

A  fleecy  cloud, 
And  I  turned  away  to  thee, 

Proud  Evening  Star, 

In  thy  glory  afar, 
And  dearer  thy  beam  shall  be  ; 

For  joy  to  my  heart 

Is  the  proud  part 
Thou  bearest  in  Heaven  at  night, 

And  more  I  admire 

Thy  distant  fire 
Than  that  colder,  lowly  light. 


125 


DREAMS 

OH,  that  my  young  life  were  a  lasting  dream! 
My  spirit  not  awakening,  till  the  beam 
Of  an  Eternity  should  bring  the  morrow ! 
Yes !     though    that    long    dream    were    of    hopeless 

sorrow, 

'T  were  better  than  the  cold  reality 
Of  waking  life  to  him  whose  heart  must  be, 
And  hath  been  still,  upon  the  lovely  earth, 
A  chaos  of  deep  passion,  from  his  birth. 
But  should  it  be  —  that  dream  eternally 
Continuing  —  as  dreams  have  been  to  me 
In  my  young  boyhood,  —  should  it  thus  be  given, 
'T  were  folly  still  to  hope  for  higher  Heaven. 
For  I  have  revelled,  when  the  sun  was  bright 
In  the  summer  sky,  in  dreams  of  living  light 
And  loveliness,  —  have  left  my  very  heart 
In   climes   of  mine   imagining,   apart 
From  mine  own  home,  with  beings  that  have  been 
Of  mine  own  thought  —  what  more  could  I  have  seen  ? 
'T  was  once  —  and  only  once  —  and  the  wild  hour 
From  my  remembrance  shall  not  pass  —  some  power 
Or  spell  had  bound  me;  't  was  the  chilly  wind 
Came  o'er  me  in  the  night,  and  left  behind 
Its  image  on  my  spirit,  or  the  moon 
Shone  on  my  slumbers  in  her  lofty  noon 
Too  coldly,  or  the  stars,  —  howe'er  it  was, 
That  dream  was  as  that  night-wind  —  let  it  pass. 

I  have  been  happy,  though  in  a  dream. 
I  have  been  happy  —  and  I  love  the  theme  — 

126 


DREAMS 

Dreams !  in  their  vivid  coloring  of  life, 

As  in  that  fleeting,  shadowy,  misty  strife 

Of  semblance  with  reality,  which  brings 

To  the  delirious  eye  more  lovely  things 

Of  Paradise  and  Love  —  and  all  our  own  — 

Than  young  Hope  in  his  sunniest  hour  hath  known. 


THE  LAKE:  TO 

IN  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 
To  haunt  of  the  wide  world  a  spot 
The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less, 
So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 
Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 
And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around. 

But  when  the  Night  had  thrown  her  pall 

Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 

And  the  mystic  wind  went  by 

Murmuring   in   melody, 

Then  —  ah,  then  —  I  would  awake 

To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright, 

But  a  tremulous  delight: 

A  feeling  not  the  jewelled  mine 

Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define, 

Nor  love  —  although  the  love  were  thine. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining, 

Whose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 


128 


SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD 

THY  soul  shall  find  itself  alone 
'Mid  dark  thoughts  of  the  gray  tombstone; 
Not  one,  of  all  the  crowd,  to  pry 
Into  thine  hour  of  secrecy. 

Be  silent  in  that  solitude, 

Which  is  not  loneliness  —  for  then 

The  spirits  of  the  dead,  who  stood 
In  life  before  thee,  are  again 

In  death  around  thee,  and  their  will 

Shall  overshadow  thee ;  be  still. 

The  night,  though  clear,  shall  frown, 
And  the  stars  shall  look  not  down 
From  their  high  thrones  in  the  Heaven 
With  light  like  hope  to  mortals  given, 
But  their  red  orbs,  without  beam, 
To  thy  weariness  shall  seem 
As  a  burning  and  a  fever 
Which  would  cling  to  thee  forever. 

Now  are  thoughts  thou  shalt  not  banish, 
Now  are  visions  ne'er  to  vanish; 
From  thy  spirit  shall  they  pass 
No  more,  like  dewdrops  from  the  grass. 

The  breeze,  the  breath  of  God,  is  still, 
And  the  mist  upon  the  hill 
129 


EARLY  POEMS 

Shadowy,  shadowy,  yet  unbroken, 
Is  a  symbol  and  a  token. 
How  it  hangs  upon  the  trees, 
A  mystery  of  mysteries! 


130 


tf 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM 

TAKE  this  kiss  upon  the  brow! 
And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 
Thus  much  let  me  avow: 
You  are  not  wrong  who  deem 
That  my  days  have  been  a  dream ; 
Yet  if  hope  has  flown  away 
In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 
In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 
Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone? 
All  that  we  see  or  seem 
Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf-tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand  — 
How  few !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep  —  while  I  weep ! 
O  God!  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp? 
O  God!  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 
But  a  dream  within  a  dream? 


131 


SONG 

T    SAW  thee  on  thy  bridal  day, 
-»•    When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee ; 

And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Of  loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame: 

As  such  it  well  may  pass, 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas ! 

.Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


132 


TO  THE  RIVER  

FAIR  river !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 
Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty  —  the  unhidden  heart, 
The  playful  maziness  of  art, 
In  old  Alberto's  daughter; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks, 

Which  glistens  then,  and  trembles, 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  brooks 

Her  worshipper  resembles; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her   image   deeply  lies  — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


133 


TO  

THE  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 
The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips  —  and  all  thy  melody 
Of  lip-begotten  words ; 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrined, 

Then  desolately  fall, 
O  God !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall; 

Thy  heart  —  thy  heart !  —  I  wake  and  sigh. 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy 

Of  the  bawbles  that  it  may. 


134 


rA  DREAM 

IN  visions  of  the  dark  night 
I  have  dreamed  of  joy  departed, 
But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 

Ah!  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 

To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 
On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 

Turned  back  upon  the  past? 

That  holy  dream,  that  holy  dream, 

While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 
Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam 

A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 

What  though  that  light,  through  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar, 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day-star? 


135 


ROMANCE 

ROMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 
To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been  —  a  most  familiar  bird  — 
Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say, 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
.While  in  the  wild-wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child  —  with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Of  late,  eternal  condor  years 
So  shake  the  very  heaven  on  high 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 
I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 
Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky; 
And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 
Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings, 
That  little  time  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away  —  forbidden  things  — 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 


136 


FAIRY-LAND 

DIM  vales,  and  shadowy  floods, 
And  cloudy-looking  woods, 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over ! 
Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane, 
Again  —  again  —  again, 
Every  moment  of  the  night, 
Forever  changing  places, 
And  they  put  out  the  starlight 
With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces. 
About  twelve  by  the  moon-dial, 
One,  more  filmy  than  the  rest 
(A  kind  which,  upon  trial, 
They  have  found  to  be  the  best), 
Comes  down  —  still  down  —  and  down, 
With  its  centre  on  the  crown 
Of  a  mountain's  eminence, 
.While  its  wide  circumference 
In  easy  drapery  falls 
Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 
Wherever  they  may  be; 
O'er  the  strange  woods,  o'er  the  sea, 
Over  spirits  on  the  wing, 
Over   every   drowsy   thing, 
And  buries  them  up  quite 
In  a  labyrinth  of  light; 
And  then,  how  deep,  oh,  deep, 
Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep ! 
137 


EARLY  POEMS 

In  the  morning  they  arise, 

And  their  moony  covering 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies 

With  the  tempests  as  they  toss, 

Like  —  almost  anything  — 

Or  a  yellow  albatross. 

They  use  that  moon  no  more 

For  the  same  end  as  before, 

Videlicet,  a  tent,  — 

Which  I  think  extravagant. 

Its  atomies,  however, 

Into   a  shower  dissever, 

Of  which  those  butterflies 

Of  Earth,  who  seek  the  skies, 

And  so  come  down  again 

(Never-contented  things!), 

Have  brought  a  specimen 

Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


138 


ALONE 


FROM  childhood's  hour  I  have  not  been 
As  others  were ;  I  have  not  seen 
As  others  saw;  I  could  not  bring 
My  passions  from  a  common  spring. 
From  the  same  source  I  have  not  taken 
My  sorrow;  I  could  not  awaken 
My  heart  to  joy  at  the  same  tone; 
And  all  I  loved,  7  loved  alone. 
Then  —  in  my  childhood,  in  the  dawn 
Of  a  most  stormy  life  —  was  drawn 
From  every  depth  of  good  and  ill 
The  mystery  which  binds  me  still: 
From  the  torrent,  or  the  fountain, 
From  the  red  cliff  of  the  mountain, 
From  the  sun  that  round  me  rolled 
In  its  autumn  tint  of  gold, 
From  the  lightning  in  the  sky 
As  it  passed  me  flying  by, 
From  the  thunder  and  the  storm, 
And  the  cloud  that  took  the  form 
(When  the  rest  of  Heaven  was  blue) 
Of  a  demon  in  my  view. 


159 


NOTES 

TOGETHER  WITH  A  COMPLETE  VARI 
ORUM   TEXT  OF  THE  POEMS 


NOTES 

I 
ON  THE  POEMS 

THE  sources  of  the  text  for  Poe's  poems  are  the 
four  editions  published  by  him,  1827,  1829, 1831, 
1845,  and  the  newspapers,  journals,  and  magazines  to 
which  he  contributed  poems ;  viz.,  the  Baltimore  "  Sat 
urday  Visiter,"  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  "  Bur 
ton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  Baltimore  "  American 
Museum,"  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Evening  Post," 
"  Graham's  Magazine,"  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Mu 
seum,"  "  Broadway  Journal,"  "  American  Whig  Re 
view,"  "  Union  Magazine,"  "  Sartain's  Union  Maga 
zine,"  "  Flag  of  our  Union."  In  one  or  two  instances  in 
which  the  first  issue  of  a  poem  is  either  unknown  or 
not  found,  the  text  of  Griswold,  1850,  is  the  sole  au 
thority.  The  main  MS.  source,  superior  to  these  texts, 
is  the  Lorimer  Graham  copy  of  the  1845  edition,  which 
contains  marginal  corrections  in  Poe's  hand.  The 
Wilmer  MS.  (see  Preface)  affords  new  early  readings. 
The  collation  of  the  several  editions  is  as  follows: 

1827 

TAMERLANE  |  AND  |  OTHER  POEMS  |  By  a  Bosto- 
nian  [  Young  heads  are  giddy  and  young  hearts  are 
warm  |  And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform.  [ 
COWPER  |  BOSTON  |  Calvin  F.  S.  Thomas,  Printer  ] 
1827. 

143 


NOTES 


Collation  [6#  X  ^/8  inches].  Title  (with  blank 
verso),  pp.  1-2;  Preface,  pp.  3-4;  Tamerlane,  pp. 
5-21  ;  Blank  verso,  p.  22  ;  Half-title,  Fugitive  Pieces 
(with  blank  verso),  pp.  23-24;  Fugitive  Pieces,  pp. 
25-34;  Half-title,  Notes  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  35- 
36  ;  Notes,  pp.  37-40. 

Issued  as  a  pamphlet,  in  yellow  covers.  Three  copies 
are  known.  The  text  follows  the  Reprint  by  R.  H. 
Shepard,  London,  1884,  which  corrects  printer's  er 
rors,  but  gives  them  in  a  list  by  themselves  in  the 
Preface. 

1829 

AL  AARAAF  |  TAMERLANE  |  AND  |  MINOR  POEMS  |  By 
Edgar  A.  Poe.  |  Baltimore  :  |  Hatch  &  Dunning  |  1829. 

Collation:  Octavo.  Title  (with  copyright  and  im 
print  on  verso),  pp.  1-2;  Motto:  —  Entiendes,  etc. 
(with  blank  verso),  pp.  3-4;  Half-title,  Al  Aaraaf 
(with  motto  What  has  Night,  etc.  on  verso),  pp.  5-6; 
Dedication.  |  Who  Drinks  the  deepest?  —  here's  to 
him.  |  Cleveland  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  7-8;  Motto, 
"A  star  was  discovered,"  etc.  (with  blank  verso),  pp. 
9-10;  Sonnet,  "  Science,"  etc.  (with  blank  verso),  pp. 
11-12;  Al  Aaraaf  |  Part  1,  pp.  13-21;  Blank  verso, 
p.  22;  Half-title,  Al  Aaraaf  (with  blank  verso),  pp. 
23-24  ;  Al  Aaraaf  |  Part  2,  pp.  25-38  ;  Half-title,  Tam 
erlane  (with  Advertisement  |  This  poem  was  printed 
for  publication  in  Boston,  in  the  year  |  1827,  but  sup 
pressed  through  circumstances  of  a  private  nature,  on 
verso),  pp.  39-40;  Dedication,  To  |  John  Neal  \  This 
Poem  I  is  |  respectfully  dedicated  (with  blank  verso), 
pp.  41-42;  Tamerlane,  pp.  43-54;  Half-title,  Miscel 
laneous  Poems  (with  motto:  My  nothingness,  etc.,  on 
verso),  pp.  55-56;  Poems  (no  title),  pp.  57-71.  Is 
sued  in  blue  boards. 

144 


NOTES 
1831 

POEMS  |  By  |  Edgar  A.  Poe  |  Tout  le  Monde  a 
Raison. —  Rochefoucault.  |  Second  Edition  |  New 
York.  |  Published  by  Elam  Bliss  |  1831. 

Collation:  Duodecimo.  Half-title,  Poems  (with 
blank  verso),  pp.  1-2;  Title  (with  imprint  on  verso), 
pp.  3-4.  Dedication,  To  |  The  U.  S.  Corps  of  Cadets  | 
This  Volume  |  is  Respectfully  Dedicated  (with  blank 
verso),  pp.  5-6;  Contents  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  7-8; 
Half-title,  Letter  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  9-10 ;  Motto, 
"  Tell  wit,"  etc.  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  11-12 ;  Letter 
to  Mr.  -  -  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  13-30 ;  Half- 

title,  Introduction  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  31-32;  In 
troduction,  pp.  33-36;  Half-title,  Helen  (with  blank 
verso),  pp.  37-38;  To  Helen  (with  blank  verso),  pp. 
39-40;  Half-title,  Israfel  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  41- 
42;  Israfel  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  43-46;  Half-title, 
The  Doomed  City  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  47-48;  The 
Doomed  City  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  49-52;  Half- 
title,  Fairyland  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  53-54;  Fairy 
Land,  pp.  55-58;  Half-title,  Irene  (with  blank  verso), 
59-60;  Irene,  pp.  61-64;  Half-title,  A  Paean  (with 
blank  verso),  pp.  65-66;  A  Psan,  pp.  67-70;  Half- 
title  Valley  Nis  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  71-72;  The 
Valley  Nis  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  73-76;  Half- 
title,  Al  Aaraaf,  p.  77;  Motto,  "What  has  Night 
to  do  with  Sleep?  "  —  Comus,  p.  78 ;  "  A  Star  was  dis 
covered,"  etc.  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  79-80;  Sonnet, 
"  Science  "  (with  blank  verso),  pp.  81-82 ;  Al  Aaraaf  | 
Part  First  |  pp.  83-92;  Half-title,  Al  Aaraaf  (with 
blank  verso),  pp.  93-94;  Al  Aaraaf  |  Part  Second,  pp. 
95-108;  Half-title,  Tamerlane  (with  blank  verso),  pp. 
109-110;  Tamerlane,  pp.  111-124.  Issued  in  green 
boards. 

145 


NOTES 

The  prefatory  "  Letter  to  Mr. "  was  re- 
published,  slightly  revised,  in  the  "  Southern  Liter- 
-ary  Messenger,"  July,  1836,  with  the  following  note: 
"  These  detached  passages  form  part  of  the  preface  to 
a  small  volume  printed  some  years  ago  for  private  cir 
culation.  They  have  vigor  and  much  originality  —  but 
of  course  we  shall  not  be  called  upon  to  indorse  all  the 
writer's  opinions." 

In  the  original  form,  1831,  the  letter  is  as  follows :  — 


LETTER  TO  MR. 


POINT, ,  1831. 

DEAR  B 


Believing  only  a  portion  of  my  former  volume  to 
be  worthy  a  second  edition,  —  that  small  portion  I 
thought  it  as  well  to  include  in  the  present  book  as  to 
republish  by  itself.  I  have  therefore  herein  combined 
"  Al  Aaraaf "  and  "  Tamerlane  "  with  other  Poems 
hitherto  unprinted.  Nor  have  I  hesitated  to  insert 
from  the  "  Minor  Poems  "  now  omitted  whole  lines,  and 
even  passages,  to  the  end  that,  being  placed  in  a  fairer 
light  and  the  trash  shaken  from  them  in  which  they 
were  embedded,  they  may  have  some  chance  of  being 
seen  by  posterity. 

It  has  been  said  that  a  good  critique  on  a  poem  may 
be  written  by  one  who  is  no  poet  himself.  This,  ac 
cording  to  your  idea  and  mine  of  poetry,  I  feel  to  be 
false  —  the  less  poetical  the  critic,  the  less  just  the 
critique,  and  the  converse.  On  this  account,  and  be 
cause  there  are  but  few  B 's  in  the  world,  I  would 

be  as  much  ashamed  of  the  world's  good  opinion  as 
proud  of  your  own.  Another  than  yourself  might  here 

146 


NOTES 

observe,  "  Shakespeare  is  in  possession  of  the  world's 
good  opinion,  and  yet  Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  of 
poets.  It  appears  then  that  the  world  judge  correctly, 
why  should  you  be  ashamed  of  their  favorable  judg 
ment?  "  The  difficulty  lies  in  the  interpretation  of 
the  word  "  judgment  "  or  "  opinion."  The  opinion  11 
the  world's,  truly,  but  it  may  be  called  theirs  as  a 
man  would  call  a  book  his,  having  bought  it;  he  did 
not  write  the  book,  but  it  is  his ;  they  did  not  originate 
the  opinion,  but  it  is  theirs.  A  fool,  for  example, 
thinks  Shakespeare  a  great  poet  —  yet  the  fool  has 
never  read  Shakespeare.  But  the  fool's  neighbor,  who 
is  a  step  higher  on  the  Andes  of  the  mind,  whose  head 
(that  is  to  say,  his  more  exalted  thought)  is  too  far 
above  the  fool  to  be  seen  or  understood,  but  whose 
feet  (by  which  I  mean  his  every-day  actions)  are  suffi 
ciently  near  to  be  discerned,  and  by  means  of  which 
that  superiority  is  ascertained,  which  but  for  them 
would  never  have  been  discovered,  —  this  neighbor  as 
serts  that  Shakespeare  is  a  great  poet,  —  the  fool 
believes  him,  and  it  is  henceforward  his  opinion.  This 
neighbor's  own  opinion  has,  in  like  manner,  been 
adopted  from  one  above  him,  and  so,  ascendingly,  to 
a  few  gifted  individuals,  who  kneel  around  the  summit, 
beholding,  face  to  face,  the  master-spirit  who  stands 
upon  the  pinnacle. 

You  are  aware  of  the  great  barrier  in  the  path  of  an 
American  writer.  He  is  read,  if  at  all,  in  preference 
to  the  combined  and  established  wit  of  the  world.  I 
say  established ;  for  it  is  with  literature  as  with  law  or 
empire  —  an  established  name  is  an  estate  in  tenure, 
or  a  throne  in  possession.  Besides,  one  might  sup 
pose  that  books,  like  their  authors,  improve  by  travel 


NOTES 

—  their  having  crossed  the  sea  is,  with  us,  so  great  a 
distinction.  Our  antiquaries  abandon  time  for  dis 
tance;  our  very  fops  glance  from  the  binding  to  the 
bottom  of  the  titlepage,  where  the  mystic  characters 
which  spell  London,  Paris,  or  Genoa,  are  precisely  so 
many  letters  of  recommendation. 

I  mentioned  just  now  a  vulgar  error  as  regards  criti 
cism.  I  think  the  notion  that  no  poet  can  form  a 
correct  estimate  of  his  own  writings  is  another.  I 
remarked  before,  that  in  proportion  to  the  poetical 
talent,  would  be  the  justice  of  a  critique  upon  poetry. 
Therefore,  a  bad  poet  would,  I  grant,  make  a  false 
critique,  and  his  self-love  would  infallibly  bias  his  little 
judgment  in  his  favor;  but  a  poet,  who  is  indeed  a 
poet,  could  not,  I  think,  fail  of  making  a  just  critique. 
Whatever  should  be  deducted  on  the  score  of  self-love, 
might  be  replaced  on  account  of  his  intimate  acquaint 
ance  with  the  subject;  in  short,  we  have  more  instances 
of  false  criticism  than  of  just,  where  one's  own  writ 
ings  are  the  test,  simply  because  we  have  more  bad 
poets  than  good.  There  are  of  course  many  objec 
tions  to  what  I  say:  Milton  is  a  great  example  of  the 
contrary ;  but  his  opinion  with  respect  to  the  "  Para 
dise  Regained  "  is  by  no  means  fairly  ascertained.  By 
what  trivial  circumstances  men  are  often  led  to  assert 
what  they  do  not  really  believe!  Perhaps  an  inadver 
tent  word  has  descended  to  posterity.  But,  in  fact, 
the  "  Paradise  Regained  "  is  little,  if  at  all,  inferior  to 
the  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  is  only  supposed  so  to  be, 
because  men  do  not  like  epics,  whatever  they  may  say 
to  the  contrary,  and  reading  those  of  Milton  in  their 
natural  order,  are  too  much  wearied  with  the  first  to 
derive  any  pleasure  from  the  second. 

148 


NOTES 

I  dare  say  Milton  preferred  "  Comus  "  to  either  — 
if  so  —  justly. 

,••••••••• 

As  I  am  speaking  of  poetry,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to 
touch  slightly  upon  the  most  singular  heresy  in  its 
modern  history  —  the  heresy  of  what  is  called,  very 
foolishly,  the  Lake  School.  Some  years  ago  I  might 
have  been  induced,  by  an  occasion  like  the  present,  to 
attempt  a  formal  refutation  of  their  doctrine ;  at  pres 
ent  it  would  be  a  work  of  supererogation.  The  wise 
must  bow  to  the  wisdom  of  such  men  as  Coleridge  and 
Southey,  but  being  wise,  have  laughed  at  poetical 
theories  so  prosaically  exemplified. 

Aristotle,  with  singular  assurance,  has  declared 
poetry  the  most  philosophical  of  all  writings ;  but  it 
required  a  Wordsworth  to  pronounce  it  the  most  meta 
physical.  He  seems  to  think  that  the  end  of  poetry 
is,  or  should  be,  instruction  —  yet  it  is  a  truism  that 
the  end  of  our  existence  is  happiness;  if  so,  the  end 
of  every  separate  part  of  our  existence — everything 
connected  with  our  existence  should  be  still  happiness. 
Therefore  the  end  of  instruction  should  be  happiness ; 
and  happiness  is  another  name  for  pleasure ;  —  there 
fore  the  end  of  instruction  should  be  pleasure:  yet  we 
see  the  above-mentioned  opinion  implies  precisely  the 
reverse. 

To  proceed:  ceteris  paribus,  he  who  pleases  is  of 
more  importance  to  his  fellow-men  than  he  who  in 
structs,  since  utility  is  happiness,  and  pleasure  is  the 
end  already  obtained  which  instruction  is  merely  the 
means  of  obtaining. 

I  see  no  reason,  then,  why  our  metaphysical  poets 
should  plume  themselves  so  much  on  the  utility  of 
their  works,  unless  indeed  they  refer  to  instruction 

149 


NOTES 

with  eternity  in  view ;  in  which  case,  sincere  respect  for 
their  piety  would  not  allow  me  to  express  my  contempt 
for  their  judgment;  contempt  which  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  conceal,  since  their  writings  are  professedly  to 
be  understood  by  the  few,  and  it  is  the  many  who  stand 
in  need  of  salvation.  In  such  case  I  should  no  doubt 
be  tempted  to  think  of  the  devil  in  "  Melmoth,"  who 
labors  indefatigably  through  three  octavo  volumes  to 
accomplish  the  destruction  of  one  or  two  souls,  while 
any  common  devil  would  have  demolished  one  or  two 
thousand. 


Against  the  subtleties  which  would  make  poetry  a 
study  —  not  a  passion  —  it  becomes  the  metaphysician 
to  reason  —  but  the  poet  to  protest.  Yet  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  are  men  in  years;  the  one  imbued  in 
contemplation  from  his  childhood,  the  other  a  giant 
in  intellect  and  learning.  The  diffidence,  then,  with 
which  I  venture  to  dispute  their  authority,  would  be 
overwhelming,  did  I  not  feel,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  that  learning  has  little  to  do  with  the  imagi 
nation  —  intellect  with  the  passions  —  or  age  with 
poetry. 


"  Trifles,  like  straws,  upon  the  surface  flow, 
He  who  would  search  for  pearls  must  dive  below," 

are  lines  which  have  done  much  mischief.  As  regards 
the  greater  truths,  men  oftener  err  by  seeking  them  at 
the  bottom  than  at  the  top;  the  depth  lies  in  the  huge 
abysses  where  wisdom  is  sought  —  not  in  the  palpable 
palaces  where  she  is  found.  The  ancients  were  not  al 
ways  right  in  hiding  the  goddess  in  a  well:  witness  the 
light  which  Bacon  has  thrown  upon  philosophy;  wit- 

150 


NOTES 

ness  the  principles  of  our  divine  faith  —  that  moral 
mechanism  by  which  the  simplicity  of  a  child  may  over 
balance  the  wisdom  of  a  man.  Poetry  above  all  things 
is  a  beautiful  painting  whose  tints  to  minute  inspection 
are  confusion  worse  confounded,  but  start  boldly  out 
to  the  cursory  glance  of  the  connoisseur. 

We  see  an  instance  of  Coleridge's  liability  to  err,  in 
his  "  Biographia  Literaria  "  —  professedly  his  literary 
life  and  opinions,  but,  in  fact,  a  treatise  de  omni  scibili 
et  quibusdam  aliis.  He  goes  wrong  by  reason  of  his 
very  profundity,  and  of  his  error  we  have  a  natural 
type  in  the  contemplation  of  a  star.  He  who  regards 
it  directly  and  intensely  sees,  it  is  true,  the  star,  but  it 
is  the  star  without  a  ray  —  while  he  who  surveys  it  less 
inquisitively  is  conscious  of  all  for  which  the  star  is 
useful  to  us  below  —  its  brilliancy  and  its  beauty. 

As  to  Wordsworth,  I  have  no  faith  in  him.  That  he 
had,  in  youth,  the  feelings  of  a  poet  I  believe  —  for 
there  are  glimpses  of  extreme  delicacy  in  his  writings 
—  ( and  delicacy  is  the  poet's  own  kingdom  —  his  El 
Dorado)  — but  they  have  the  appearance  of  a  better 
day  recollected;  and  glimpses,  at  best,  are  little  evi 
dence  of  present  poetic  fire  —  we  know  that  a  few 
straggling  flowers  spring  up  daily  in  the  crevices  of 
the  avalanche. 

He  was  to  blame  in  wearing  away  his  youth  in  con 
templation  with  the  end  of  poetizing  in  his  manhood. 
With  the  increase  of  his  judgment  the  light  which 
should  make  it  apparent  has  faded  away.  His  judg 
ment  consequently  is  too  correct.  This  may  not  be 
understood,  —  but  the  old  Goths  of  Germany  would 
have  understood  it,  who  used  to  debate  matters  of  im 
portance  to  their  State  twice,  once  when  drunk,  and 

151 


NOTES 

once  when  sober  —  sober  that  they  might  not  be  defi 
cient  in  formality  —  drunk  lest  they  should  be  desti 
tute  of  vigor. 

The  long  wordy  discussions  by  which  he  tries  to 
reason  us  into  admiration  of  his  poetry,  speak  very 
little  in  his  favor:  they  are  full  of  such  assertions  as 
this —  (I  have  opened  one  of  his  volumes  at  random) 
"  Of  genius  the  only  proof  is  the  act  of  doing  well  what 
is  worthy  to  be  done,  and  what  was  never  done  before  " 
—  indeed !  then  it  follows  that  in  doing  what  is  un 
worthy  to  be  done,  or  what  has  been  done  before,  no 
genius  can  be  evinced;  yet  the  picking  of  pockets  is 
an  unworthy  act,  pockets  have  been  picked  time  im 
memorial,  and  Barrington,  the  pickpocket,  in  point  of 
genius,  would  have  thought  hard  of  a  comparison  with 
William  Wordsworth,  the  poet. 

Again  —  in  estimating  the  merit  of  certain  poems, 
whether  they  be  Ossian's  or  M'Pherson's,  can  surely 
be  of  little  consequence,  yet,  in  order  to  prove  their 

worthlessness,  Mr.  W has  expended  many  pages 

in  the  controversy.  Tantcene  anlmis?  Can  great  minds 
descend  to  such  absurdity?  But  worse  still:  that  he 
may  bear  down  every  argument  in  favor  of  these 
poems,  he  triumphantly  drags  forward  a  passage,  in 
his  abomination  of  which  he  expects  the  reader  to 
sympathize.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  epic  poem 
"  Temora."  "  The  blue  waves  of  Ullin  roll  in  light ; 
the  green  hills  are  covered  with  day;  trees  shake  their 
dusky  heads  in  the  breeze."  And  this  —  this  gorgeous, 
yet  simple  imagery,  where  all  is  alive  and  panting  with 
immortality  —  this,  William  Wordsworth,  the  author 
of  "  Peter  Bell,"  has  selected  to  dignify  with  his  im 
perial  contempt.  We  shall  see  what  better  he,  in  his 
own  person,  has  to  offer.  Imprimis :  — 

152 


NOTES 

"  And  now  she's  at  the  poney's  head, 
And  now  she's  at  the  poney's  tail, 
On  that  side  now,  and  now  on  this, 
And  almost  stifled  her  with  bliss  — 
A  few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed, 
She  pats  the  poney  where  or  when 
She  knows  not:  happy  Betty  Foy ! 
O,  Johnny !  never  mind  the  Doctor !  " 

Secondly :  — 

"  The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  —  stars  began  to  blink, 

I  heard  a  voice;  it  said drink,  pretty  creature,  drink; 

And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  be  —  fore  me  I  espied 
A  snow-white  mountain  lamb,  with  a  —  maiden  at  its  side. 
No  other  sheep  were  near;  the  lamb  was  all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender  cord  was  —  tether'd  to  a  stone." 

Now,  we  have  no  doubt  this  is  all  true;  we  mil  be 
lieve  it,  indeed,  we  will,  Mr.  W .     Is  it  sympathy 

for  the  sheep  you  wish  to  excite?     I  love  a  sheep  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart. 


But  there  are  occasions,  dear  B ,  there  are  oc 
casions  when  even  Wordsworth  is  reasonable.  Even 
Stamboul,  it  is  said,  shall  have  an  end,  and  the  most 
unlucky  blunders  must  come  to  a  conclusion.  Here  is 
an  extract  from  his  preface :  — 

"  Those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  phraseology 
of  modern  writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading  this  book  to  a 
conclusion  (impossible!),  will,  no  doubt,  have  to  struggle 
with  feelings  of  awkwardness;  (ha!  ha!  ha!)  they  will 
look  round  for  poetry  (ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!)  and  will  be  in 
duced  to  inquire  by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts 
have  been  permitted  to  assume  that  title.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
ha!  ha!" 

153 


NOTES 

Yet,  let  not  Mr.  W despair;  he  has  given  im 
mortality  to  a  wagon,  and  the  bee  Sophocles  has  eter 
nalized  a  sore  toe,  and  dignified  a  tragedy  with  a  chorus 
of  turkeys. 


Of  Coleridge,  I  cannot  speak  but  with  reverence. 
His  towering  intellect!  his  gigantic  power!  To  use 
an  author  quoted  by  himself,  "  J'ai  trouve  souvent  que 
la  plupart  des  sectes  ont  raison  dans  une  bonne  partie 
de  ce  qu'elles  avancent,  mais  non  pas  en  ce  qu'elles 
nient,"  and  to  employ  his  own  language,  he  has  im 
prisoned  his  own  conceptions  by  the  barrier  he  has 
erected  against  those  of  others.  It  is  lamentable  to 
think  that  such  a  mind  should  be  buried  in  metaphysics, 
and,  like  the  Nyctanthes,  waste  its  perfume  upon  the 
night  alone.  In  reading  that  man's  poetry,  I  tremble, 
like  one  who  stands  upon  a  volcano,  conscious,  from  the 
very  darkness  bursting  from  the  crater,  of  the  fire  and 
the  light  that  are  weltering  below. 


What  is  Poetry?  —  Poetry!  that  Proteus-like  idea, 
with  as  many  appellations  as  the  nine-titled  Corcyra! 
"  Give  me,"  I  demanded  of  a  scholar  some  time  ago, 
"  give  me  a  definition  of  poetry."  "  Tres-volontiers ;  " 
and  he  proceeded  to  his  library,  brought  me  a  Dr. 
Johnson,  and  overwhelmed  me  with  a  definition.  Shade 
of  the  immortal  Shakespeare !  I  imagine  to  myself  the 
scowl  of  your  spiritual  eye  upon  the  profanity  of  that 

scurrilous  Ursa  Major.     Think  of  poetry,  dear  B , 

think  of  poetry,  and  then  think  of  —  Dr.  Samuel  John 
son  !  Think  of  all  that  is  airy  and  fairylike,  and  then 
of  all  that  is  hideous  and  unwieldy;  think  of  his  huge 
bulk,  the  Elephant !  and  then  —  and  then  think  of  the 

r  154 


NOTES 

"  Tempest "  —  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  — 
Prospero  —  Oberon  —  and  Titania ! 

,••••••••• 

A  poem,  in  my  opinion,  is  opposed  to  a  work  of  sci 
ence  by  having,  for  its  immediate  object,  pleasure,  not 
truth ;  to  romance,  by  having,  for  its  ob j  ect,  an  indefi 
nite  instead  of  a  definite  pleasure,  being  a  poem  only 
so  far  as  this  object  is  attained;  romance  presenting 
perceptible  images  with  definite,  poetry  with  wdefinite 
sensations,  to  which  end  music  is  an  essential,  since  the 
comprehension  of  sweet  sound  is  our  most  indefinite 
conception.  Music,  when  combined  with  a  pleasurable 
idea,  is  poetry;  music,  without  the  idea,  is  simply 
music;  the  idea,  without  the  music,  is  prose,  from  its 
very  definitiveness. 

What  was  meant  by  the  invective  against  him  who 
had  no  music  in  his  soul? 

To  sum  up  this  long  rigmarole,  I  have,  dear  B , 

what  you,  no  doubt,  perceive,  for  the  metaphysical 
poets,  as  poets,  the  most  sovereign  contempt.  That 
they  have  followers  proves  nothing  — 

No  Indian  prince  has  to  his  palace 

More  followers  than  a  thief  to  the  gallows. 

1845 

THE  RAVEN  |  AND  |  OTHER  POEMS.  |  By  |  Edgar  A. 
Poe,  |  New  York:  |  Wiley  and  Putnam,  161  Broad 
way,  j  1845. 

Collation:  Duodecimo.  Fly-title,  Wiley  and  Put 
nam's  |  Library  of  |  American  Books.  |  The  Raven 
and  Other  Poems.  —  Title  (with  copyright  and  im 
print  on  verso),  pp.  i— ii;  Dedication  (with  blank 

155 


NOTES 

verso),  pp.  iii-iv;  Preface  (with  Contents  on  verso), 
pp.  v-vi;  The  Raven  and  Other  Poems,  pp.  1-51; 
Blank  verso,  p.  52 ;  Half-title,  Poems  Written  in  Youth 
(with  blank  verso),  pp.  53-54;  Poems  Written  in 
Youth,  pp.  55-91.  Issued  in  paper  covers. 

THE  RAVEN 

The  Raven.  The  "  Evening  Mirror,"  Jan.  29,  1845 ; 
The  "American  Whig  Review,"  February,  1845 
(by  "Quarles");  "Broadway  Journal,"  i.  6; 
1845. 

TEXT.     1845,  Lorimer  Graham  copy.     Other  readings: 
II.  3  sought    |    tried     Am.  W.  R.;  B.  J. 
V.  3  stillness  \  darkness    Am.  W.  R. ;  B.  J. ; 

1845. 
VI.  1  Back  |  Then     Am.     W.  R. ;  B.  J. 

2  again  I  heard  \  I  heard  again    Am.  W. 

R.;  B.  J.;  1845. 

VII.  3  minute  \  instant  Am.  W.  R. ;  B.  J. ; 
1845  ;  moment  Poe's  "  Philosophy  of 
Composition." 

IX.  3  living  human  \  sublunary     Am.  W.  R. 
6  Then  the  bird  said    \    Quoth  the  raven 

Am.  W.  R. 
XL  1  Startled  \  Wondering    Am.  W.  R. 

4-6  till     .     .     .     nevermore.'  "  |  so  when 

Hope  he  would  adjure 
Stern  Despair  returned,  instead  of  the 

sweet  Hope  he  dared  adjure, 
That  sad  answer,  '  Nevermore.9  "    Am. 
W.  R. 

5  that  |  the    B.  J. 

6  Of    '  Nevermore  '  —  of    '  Nevermore.9  " 

B.  J. 

156 


NOTES 

XII.  1  fancy  \  sad  soul    Am.  W.  R.;  B.  J.; 

1845. 
XIV.  £  Seraphim  whose    \    angels  whose  faint 

Am.  W.  R. ;  B.  J. ;  1845. 
5  Quaff,  oh  |  Let  me     Am.  W.  R. 
XVIII.  3  demon's  \  demon     Am.  W.  R. ;  B.  J. 

NOTES.    "  Evening  Mirror,"  Jan.  24,  1845 :  — 

"  We  are  permitted  to  copy,  from  the  second  number 
of  *  The  American  Review,'  the  following  remarkable 
poem  by  Edgar  Poe.  In  our  opinion  it  is  the  most 
effective  single  example  of  *  fugitive  poetry '  ever  pub 
lished  in  this  country,  and  unsurpassed  in  English 
poetry  for  subtle  conception,  masterly  ingenuity  of 
versification,  and  consistent  sustaining  of  imaginative 
lift  and  *  pokerishness.'  It  is  one  of  those  '  dainties 
bred  in  a  book,'  which  we  feed  on.  It  will  stick  to  the 
memory  of  everybody  who  reads  it." 

"  American  Whig  Review,"  February,  1845 :  — 

"The  following  lines  from  a  correspondent,  besides 
the  deep  quaint  strain  of  the  sentiment,  and  the  curi 
ous  introduction  of  some  ludicrous  touches  amidst  the 
serious  and  impressive,  as  was  doubtless  intended  by  the 
author,  —  appear  to  us  one  of  the  most  felicitous  speci 
mens  of  unique  rhyming  which  has  for  some  time  met 
our  eye.  The  resources  of  English  rhythm  for  varieties 
of  melody,  measure,  and  sound,  producing  correspond 
ing  diversities  of  effect,  have  been  thoroughly  studied, 
much  more  perceived,  by  very  few  poets  in  the  language. 
While  the  classic  tongues,  especially  the  Greek,  possess, 
by  power  of  accent,  several  advantages  for  versification 
over  our  own,  chiefly  through  greater  abundance  of 
spondaic  feet,  we  have  other  and  very  great  advantages 

157 


NOTES 

of  sound  by  the  modern  usage  of  rhyme.  Alliteration  is 
nearly  the  only  effect  of  that  kind  which  the  ancients 
had  in  common  with  us.  It  will  be  seen  that  much  of  the 
melody  of  '  The  Raven  '  arises  from  alliteration,  and 
the  studious  use  of  similar  sounds  in  unusual  places. 
In  regard  to  its  measure,  it  may  be  noted  that,  if  all 
the  verses  were  like  the  second,  they  might  properly 
be  placed  merely  in  short  lines,  producing  a  not  un 
common  form;  but  the  presence  in  all  the  others  of 
one  line  —  mostly  the  second  in  the  verse  —  which  flows 
continuously,  with  only  an  aspirate  pause  in  the  middle, 
like  that  before  the  short  line  in  the  Sapphic  Adonic, 
while  the  fifth  has  at  the  middle  pause  no  similarity  of 
sound  with  any  part  beside,  gives  the  versification  an 
entirely  different  effect.  We  could  wish  the  capacities 
of  our  noble  language,  in  prosody,  were  better  under 
stood." 

Inspection  of  the  above  readings  shows  the  poem  in 
four  states :  first,  as  originally  issued,  Jan.  29,  1845 ; 
second,  as  revised  in  the  "  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  6, 
Feb.  8,  1845 ;  third,  as  revised  in  the  edition  of  1845 ; 
fourth,  as  revised  in  the  Lorimer  Graham  copy  of  that 
edition,  in  Poe's  MS. 

The  earliest  date  assigned  to  the  composition  or 
draft  of  the  poem  is  the  summer  of  1842.  Dr.  William 
Elliot  Griffis,  in  the  "  Home  Journal,"  Nov.  5,  1884, 
says  that  Poe  was,  in  the  summer  of  1842,  at  the 
Barhyte  trout-ponds,  Saratoga  Springs,  New  York,  and 
mentioned  the  poem  "  to  be  called  *  The  Raven  '  '  to 
Mrs.  Barhyte,  who  was  a  contributor  to  the  New  York 
"  Mirror."  The  next  summer  Poe  was  again  at  the 
same  resort ;  and  a  conversation  between  him  and  a  lad 
about  the  bird  in  the  poem  is  reported  by  Dr.  Griffis, 
who  adds  that  Mrs.  Barhyte  was  shown  the  draft.  This 

158 


NOTES 

lady  died  in  April,  1844.  These  statements  seem  to  be 
derived  from  Mr.  Barhyte's  recollection  of  what  his 
wife  said.  Dr.  Griffis  sent  this  account  in  manuscript 
to  the  present  writer;  but  it  was  not  embodied  in  the 
biography  of  Poe,  then  being  prepared,  because  it  was 
thought  best  to  admit  into  that  volume  only  such  new 
facts  as  were  supported  by  contemporary  documents. 
The  next  earliest  date  for  the  poem  is  given  by  Mr. 
Rosenbach  in  the  "American,"  Feb.  26,  1887.  "I 
read  '  The  Raven '  long  before  it  was  published,  and 
was  in  Mr.  George  R.  Graham's  office  when  the  poem 
was  offered  to  him.  Poe  said  that  his  wife  and  Mrs. 
Clemm  were  starving,  and  that  he  was  in  very  press 
ing  need  of  the  money.  I  carried  him  fifteen  dollars 
contributed  by  Mr.  Graham,  Mr.  Godey,  Mr.  Mc- 
Michael,  and  others,  who  condemned  the  poem,  but 
gave  the  money  as  a  charity."  This  was  before  Poe's 
removal  to  New  York,  and  places  the  date  of  composi 
tion  certainly  as  early  as  the  winter  of  1843-44.'  Other 
accounts  of  the  poem,  before  publication,  were  given 
by  F.  G.  Fairfield  in  the  "  Scribner's,"  October,  1875, 
as  follows:  — 

"  Poe  then  occupied  a  cottage  at  Fordham,  —  a  kind 
of  poet's  nook,  just  out  of  hearing  of  the  busy  hum  of 
the  city.  He  had  walked  all  the  way  from  New  York 
that  afternoon,  and,  having  taken  a  cup  of  tea,  went  out 
in  the  evening  and  wandered  about  for  an  hour  or  more. 
His  beloved  Virginia  was  sick  almost  unto  death;  he 
was  without  money  to  procure  the  necessary  medicines. 
He  was  out  until  about  ten  o'clock.  When  he  went  in 
he  sat  down  at  his  writing-table  and  dashed  off  *  The 
Raven.'  He  submitted  it  to  Mrs.  Clemm  for  her  con 
sideration  the  same  night,  and  it  was  printed  substan 
tially  as  it  was  written. 

"This  account  of  the  origin  of  the  poem  was  com- 
1KQ 


NOTES 

municated  to  me  in  the  fall  of  1865,  by  a  gentleman 
who  professed  to  be  indebted  to  Mrs.  Clemm  for  the 
facts  as  he  stated  them ;  and  in  the  course  of  a  saunter 
in  the  South,  in  the  summer  of  1867,  I  took  occasion 
to  verify  his  story  by  an  interview  with  that  aged  lady. 
Let  me  now  drop  Mrs.  Clemm's  version  for  a  paragraph 
to  consider  another,  resting  upon  the  testimony  of 
Colonel  Du  Solle,  who  was  intimate  with  Poe  at  this 
period,  and  concurred  in  by  other  literary  contempo 
raries  who  used  to  meet  him  of  a  midday  for  a  budget 
of  gossip  and  a  glass  of  ale  at  Sandy  Welsh's  cellar  in 
Ann  Street. 

"  Du  Solle  says  that  the  poem  was  produced  stanza 
by  stanza  at  small  intervals,  and  submitted  by  Poe 
piecemeal  to  the  criticism  and  emendation  of  his  inti 
mates,  who  suggested  various  alterations  and  substi 
tutions.  Poe  adopted  many  of  them.  Du  Solle  quotes 
particular  instances  of  phrases  that  were  incorporated 
at  his  suggestion,  and  thus  *  The  Raven  '  was  a  kind  of 
joint-stock  affair  in  which  many  minds  held  small  shares 
of  intellectual  capital.  At  length,  when  the  last  stone 
had  been  placed  in  position  and  passed  upon,  the  struc 
ture  was  voted  complete." 

Poe  was  in  the  habit  of  declaiming  his  compositions, 
when  intoxicated,  in  liquor  saloons. 

An  unimportant  account  of  his  offering  the  poem  to 
Mr.  Holley  of  the  "  American  Whig  Review  "  is  given 
in  "  The  South,"  November,  1875,  quoted  in  Ingram, 
"  The  Raven,"  p.  24.  Mr.  Ingram  also  quotes  from 
what  is  clearly  a  hoax,  a  letter  signed  J.  Shaver,  dated 
New  Orleans,  July  29,  1870,  and  quoting  from  an 
alleged  letter,  Poe  to  Daniels,  Sept.  29,  1849,  in  which 
Poe  is  made  to  confess  that  the  poem  was  written  by 
Samuel  Fenwick,  and  that  he  signed  his  own  name  to  it 
and  sent  it  for  publication  when  intoxicated,  Mr.  Fen- 

160 


NOTES 

wick  being  then  dead.  The  present  writer  would  not 
have  thought  it  necessary  to  include  this  story,  if  it  had 
not  already  found  its  way  into  books.  The  letter, 
which  was  published  in  the  "  New  Orleans  Times,"  and 
now  lies  before  us,  there  is  no  occasion  to  reprint. 

The  commentary  on  the  poem  by  Poe,  in  "  The 
Philosophy  of  Composition,"  and  passim,  in  the  criti 
cal  papers,  need  only  be  referred  to.  The  obligation 
to  Mrs.  Browning's  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship  "  is 
obvious,  but  does  not  affect  the  true  originality  of  the 
poem ;  that  to  Pike's  '  Isadore  '  is  wholly  illusory,  there 
being  a  dozen  poems  by  contemporaneous  minor  authors 
in  respect  to  which  an  equally  good  case  can  be  made 
out.  Indeed,  some  of  them  really  thought  that  Poe  had 
"  plagiarized  "  fame  from  their  verses.  A  monograph, 
"  The  Raven,"  London,  1885,  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Ingram,  to 
which  reference  has  been  made  above,  contains  several 
translations,  parodies,  etc.,  and  gives  an  account  of  the 
genesis,  history,  and  bibliography  of  the  poem. 

THE  BRIDAL  BALLAD 

The  Bridal  Ballad.     "  Southern  Literary  Messenger," 
January,  1837 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Evening 
Post,"  July  31,  1841;  1845;  "Broadway  Jour 
nal,"  ii.  4. 
Song  of  The  Newly  Wedded.     Philadelphia  "  Saturday 

Museum,"  March  4,  1843. 

TEXT.      1845.     Lorimer   Graham   copy.      Other  read 
ings  :  - 

I.  3  Insert  after: 

and  many  a  rood  of  land   S.  L.  M. 
II.   1  He  has  loved  me  long  and  well   S.  L.  M. 
2  But  |  And;  first  \  omit  S.  L.  M. 
4  as  1  like  B.  J. 
161 


NOTES 

rang  as  a  knell  \  were  his  wlw  -fell   S.  L. 
M.    rang  like  a  knell  B.  J. 

5  omit   S.  L.  M. 

III.  1  But  |  And   S.  L.  M. 
3  While  |  But   S.  L.  M. 

6  omit  S.  L.  M. 

7  Insert  after: — 

And  thus  they  said  I  plighted 

An  irrevocable  vow  - 
And  my  friends  are  all  delighted 
That  his  love  I  have  requited  — 
And  my  mind  is  much  benighted 

If  I  am  not  happy  now. 

Lo !  the  ring  is  on  my  hand, 

And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow  — 
Satins  and  jewels  grand, 
And  many  a  rood  of  land, 
Are  all  at  my  command, 

And  I  must  be  happy  now. 

S.  L.  M. 
IV.  1-2  I  have  spoken,  I  have  spoken 

They  have  registered  the  vow. 

S.  L.  M. 

It  was  spoken  —  it  was  spoken  — 
Quick  they  registered  the  vow. 

S.  E.  P. 

5  Here  is  a  ring  as  \   Behold  the  golden  all 

other  editions. 

6  /  am  |  proves  me   all  other  editions. 
V.  5  Lest  |  And  S.  L.  M. 

NOTES.  In  connection  with  this,  and  also  the  poem 
"  Lenore,"  the  following,  from  the  "  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,"  August,  1835,  is  of  interest :- 

162 


NOTES 

"  Mr.  White :  — 

"The  subjoined  copy  of  an  old  Scotch  ballad  con 
tains  so  much  of  the  beauty  and  genuine  spirit  of  by 
gone  poetry  that  I  have  determined  to  risk  a  frown 
from  the  fair  lady  by  whom  the  copy  was  furnished,  in 
submitting  it  for  publication.  The  ladies  sometimes 
violate  their  promises  —  may  I  not  for  once  assume 
their  privilege,  in  presenting  to  the  readers  of  the 
'  Messenger  '  this  '  legend  of  the  olden  time,'  although 
I  promised  not?  Relying  on  the  kind  heart  of  the 
lady  for  forgiveness  for  this  breach  of  promise,  I  have 
anticipated  the  pardon  in  sending  you  the  lines,  which 
I  have  never  as  yet  seen  in  print. 

"  BALLAD 

"  THEY  have  giv'n  her  to  another, 
They  have  sever'd  ev'ry  vow ; 
They  have  giv'n  her  to  another, 
And  my  heart  is  lonely  now; 
They  remember'd  not  our  parting  — 
They  remember'd  not  our  tears, 
They  have  sever'd  in  one  fatal  hour 
The  tenderness  of  years. 

Oh!   was  it  weel  to  leave  me? 

Thou  couldst  not  so  deceive  me ; 

Lang  and  sairly  shall  I  grieve  thee, 
Lost,  lost  Rosabel! 

"  They  have  giv'n  thee  to  another  — 
Thou  art  now  his  gentle  bride ; 
Had  I  lov'd  thee  as  a  brother, 
I  might  see  thee  by  his  side ; 
But  /  know  with  gold  they  won  thee 
And  thy  trusting  heart  beguil'd; 
163 


NOTES 

Thy  mother,  too,  did  shun  me, 
For  she  knew  I  lov'd  her  child. 
Oh !    was  it  weel,  etc. 

i 

'  They  have  giv'n  her  to  another  — 
She  will  love  him,  so  they  say; 
If  her  mem'ry  do  not  chide  her, 
Oh,  perhaps,  perhaps  she  may ; 
But  I  know  that  she  hath  spoken 
What  she  never  can  forget ; 
And  tho'  my  poor  heart  be  broken, 
It  will  love  her,  love  her  yet. 
Oh !  was  it  weel,  etc." 

THE  SLEEPER 

The  Sleeper.  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4,  1843 ;  1845 ;  "  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  18  \  Irene. 
1831;  "Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  May, 
1836. 

TEXT.      1845.      Lorimer  Graham   copy.      Other  read 
ings  :  — 
16  Insert  after: — 

Her  casement  open  to  the  skies    S.  M. ;  1845 ; 

B.  J. 

19  window  \  lattice  S.  M. 
20-21  omit   S.  M. 
46  pale  \  dim  S.  M.;  1845;  B.  J. 

The  first  version  is   1831,   as   follows,   other  early 
readings  being  noted  below :  — 

IRENE 

'T  is  now  (so  sings  the  soaring  moon) 
Midnight  in  the  sweet  month  of  June, 
164 


NOTES 

When  winged  visions  love  to  lie 

Lazily  upon  beauty's  eye, 

Or  worse  —  upon  her  brow  to  dance 

In  panoply  of  old  romance, 

Till  thoughts  and  locks  are  left,  alas ! 

A  ne'er-to-be  untangled  mass. 

An  influence  dewy,  drowsy,  dim, 
Is  dripping  from  that  golden  rim; 
Grey  towers  are  mouldering  into  rest, 
Wrapping  the  fog  around  their  breast: 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see!  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take 
And  would  not  for  the  world  awake : 
The  rosemary  sleeps  upon  the  grave  — 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave  — 
And  million  bright  pines  to  and  fro 
Are  rocking  lullabies  as  they  go, 
To  the  lone  oak  that  reels  with  bliss, 
Nodding  above  the  dim  abyss. 

All  beauty  sleeps :  and  lo !  where  lies 
With  casement  open  to  the  skies, 
Irene,  with  her  destinies ! 
Thus  hums  the  moon  within  her  ear, 

1-2  I  stand  beneath  the  soaring  moon 
At  midnight  in  the  month  of  June. 

S.  L.  M. 

3-8  omit   S.  L.  M. 

10  that  |  yon  S.  L.  M. 

18  bright  pines  \  cedars   S.  L.  M. 

20  reels  with  bliss  \  nodding  hangs   S.  L.  M. 

21  Above  yon  cataract  of  Serangs   S.  L.  M. 
25  And  hark  the  sounds  so  low  yet  clear 

165 


NOTES 

"O  lady  sweet!  how  earnest  thou  here? 

"  Strange  are  thine  eyelids  —  strange  thy  dress ! 

"  And  strange  thy  glorious  length  of  tress ! 

"  Sure  thou  art  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 

"  A  wonder  to  our  desert  trees ! 

"  Some  gentle  wind  hath  thought  it  right 

"  To  open  thy  window  to  the  night, 

"  And  wanton  airs  from  the  tree-top, 

"  Laughingly  thro'  the  lattice  drop, 

"  And  wave  this  crimson  canopy, 

"  Like  a  banner  o'er  thy  dreaming  eye ! 

"  Lady,  awake !   lady  awake ! 

"  For  the  holy  Jesus'  sake ! 

"  For  strangely  —  fearfully  in  this  hall 

"  My  tinted  shadows  rise  and  fall !  " 

The  lady  sleeps :   the  dead  all  sleep  — 

At  least  as  long  as  Love  doth  weep: 

Entranc'd,  the  spirit  loves  to  lie 

As  long  as  —  tears  on  Memory's  eye : 

But  when  a  week  or  two  go  by, 

And  the  light  laughter  chokes  the  sigh, 

Indignant  from  the  tomb  doth  take 

(Like  music  of  another  sphere) 
Which  steal  within  the  slumberer's  ear, 
Or  so  appear  —  or  so  appear ! 

S.  L.  M. 

36  Like  |  as  S.  L.  M. 

37-39  "  That  o'er  the  floor,  and  down  the  wall, 
"  Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall  — 
"  Then  for  thine  own  all  radiant  sake, 
V  Lady,  awake !   awake !  awake !  " 

S.  L.  M. 

40-58  omit   S.  L.  M. 
166 


NOTES 

Its  way  to  some  remember'd  lake, 

Where  oft  —  in  life  —  with  friends  —  it  went 

To  bathe  in  the  pure  element, 

And  there  from  the  untrodden  grass, 

Wreathing  for  its  transparent  brow 

Those  flowers  that  say  (ah  hear  them  now!) 

To  the  night-winds  as  they  pass, 

"  Ai !  ai !  alas !  —  alas ! " 

Pores  for  a  moment,  ere  it  go, 

On  the  clear  waters  there  that  flow, 

Then  sinks  within  (weigh'd  down  by  wo) 

Th'  uncertain,  shadowy  heaven  below. 

The  lady  sleeps :  oh !  may  her  sleep 

As  it  is  lasting  so  be  deep  — 

No  icy  worms  about  her  creep: 

I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 

Forever  with  as  calm  an  eye, 

That  chamber  chang'd  for  one  more  holy  — 

That  bed  for  one  more  melancholy. 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold, 

Against  whose  sounding  door  she  hath  thrown, 

In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone  — 

Some  tomb,  which  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  vampyre-winged  pannels  back, 

Flutt'ring  triumphant  o'er  the  palls 

Of  her  old  family  funerals. 

LENORE 

Lenore.     The   "Pioneer,"  February,   1843;   Philadel 
phia  "  Saturday  Museum,"  March  4,  1843;  1845; 

71  winged  \  wing-like   S.  L.  M. 
167 


NOTES 

"Broadway   Journal,"    ii.    6    |    A    Pcean.      1831; 
"  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  January,  1836. 

TEXT.     1845,  Lorimer  Graham  copy.     Other  readings : 
IV.     "Avaunt!  to-night  my  heart  is  light.     No 

dirge  will  I  upraise, 
"But  waft  the  angel   on  her  flight  with  a 

Paean  of  old  days! 
"Let  no  bell  toll !  —  lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid 

its  hallowed  mirth, 
"  Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  — 

up  from  the  damned  Earth. 
"To   friends   above,   from   fiends   below,   the 

indignant  ghost  is  riven  — 
"From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within 

the  Heaven  — 
"  From  grief  and  groan,  to  a  golden  throne, 

beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 

1845:  B.  J.  (except 
7  grief  \  moan). 

Poe  wrote  to  Griswold,  no  date,  1849,  enclosing 
copy  for  the  new  edition  of  Griswold's  "Poets  and 
Poetry  of  America  " :  "  As  regards  '  Lenore  '  I  would 
prefer  the  concluding  stanza  to  run  as  here  written." 
No  change  appears  in  Griswold's  texts.  In  the 
Lorimer  Graham  copy  the  revised  version  is  written 
upon  the  margin,  and  a  transposition  of  the  first  four 
lines  and  the  last  three  of  stanza  IV  is  indicated.  In 
the  judgment  of  the  editors  Poe  meant  only  to  substi 
tute  the  new  four  lines  on  the  margin  for  the  four 
which  he  crosses  out,  and  has  marked  his  caret  in 
the  wrong  place ;  the  transposition  has  therefore  not 
been  made  in  the  present  text. 

The  first  version  is  1831,  as  follows,  the  readings 
168 


NOTES 

of  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger "  being  noted 
below :  — 

A  PJEAN 

How  shall  the  burial  rite  be  read? 

The  solemn  song  be  sung? 
The  requiem  for  the  loveliest  dead 

That  ever  died  so  young? 

Her  friends  are  gazing  on  her, 

And  on  her  gaudy  bier, 
And  weep !  —  oh !  to  dishonor 

Dead  beauty  with  a  tear ! 

They  loved  her  for  her  wealth  — 

And  they  hated  her  for  her  pride  — 

But  she  grew  in  feeble  health, 

And  they  love  her  —  that  she  died. 

They  tell  me  (while  they  speak 
Of  her  "  costly  broider'd  pall  ") 

That  my  voice  is  growing  weak  — 
That  I  should  not  sing  at  all  — 

Or  that  my  tone  should  be 

Tun'd  to  such  solemn  song 
So  mournfully  —  so  mournfully, 

That  the  dead  may  feel  no  wrong. 

But  she  is  gone  above, 

With  young  Hope  at  her  side, 
And  I  am  drunk  with  love 

Of  the  dead,  who  is  my  bride.  — 

II.  4  Dead  \  Her  S.  L.  M. 
169 


NOTES 

Of  the  dead  —  dead  who  lies 

All  perfum'd  there, 
With  the  death  upon  her  eyes 

And  the  life  upon  her  hair. 

Thus  on  the  coffin  loud  and  long 

I  strike  —  the  murmur  sent 
Through  the  gray  chambers  to  my  song, 

Shall  be  the  accompaniment. 

Thou  died'st  in  thy  life's  June  — 
But  thou  didst  not  die  too  fair: 

Thou  didst  not  die  too  soon, 
Nor  with  too  calm  an  air. 

From  more  than  fiends  on  earth 

Thy  life  and  love  are  riven, 
To  join  the  untainted  mirth 

Of  more  than  thrones  in  heaven  — 

Therefore,  to  thee  this  night 

I  will  no  requiem  raise, 
But  waft  thee  on  thy  flight, 

With  a  Pagan  of  old  days. 

VII.  1  dead  who  \  dead  —  who   S.  L.  M. 

2  perfum'd  there  \  motionless  S.  L.  M. 
4  her  hair  \  each  tress   S.  L.  M. 

VIII.       omit    S.  L.  M. 
IX.   1,  2  In  June  she  died  —  in  June 

Of  life  —  beloved,  and  fair    S.  L.  M. 

3  Thou  didst    \   But  she  did    S.  L.  M. 
X.  2  Thy  life  and  love  are  \   Helen, 

tliy  soul  is   S.  L.  M. 
3  untainted  \  all-hallowed  S.  L.  M. 
170 


NOTES 

The  "  Pioneer "  version,  1843,  is  as  follows,  the 
readings  of  the  "  Saturday  Museum "  being  noted  be 
low  :  — 

LENORE 

AH,  Broken  is  the  golden  bowl! 

The  spirit  flown  forever ! 
Let  the  bell  toll !  —  A  saintly  soul 

Glides  down  the  Stygian  river! 
And  let  the  burial  rite  be  read  — 

The  funeral  song  be  sung  — 
A  dirge  for  the  most  lovely  dead 
That  ever  died  so  young ! 
And,  Guy  De  Vere, 
Hast  thou  no  tear? 

Weep  now  or  nevermore! 
See,  on  yon  drear 
And  rigid  bier, 

Low  lies  thy  love  Lenore ! 

"  Yon  heir,  whose  cheeks  of  pallid  hue 

With  tears  are  streaming  wet, 
Sees  only,  through 
Their  crocodile  dew, 

A  vacant  coronet  — 

False  friends  !  ye  lov'd  her  for  her  wealth 

And  hated  her  for  pride, 
And,  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health, 
Ye  bless'd  her  —  that  she  died. 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read? 
The  requiem  how  be  sung 

For  her  most  wrong'd  of  all  the  dead 
That  ever  died  so  young?  " 

I.  4  Glides  down  \  Floats  on     S.  M, 
171 


NOTES 

Peccavimus! 

But  rave  not  thus ! 

And  let  the  solemn  song 
Go  up  to  God  so  mournfulty  that  she  may  feel  no 

wrong ! 

The  sweet  Lenore 
Hath  "  gone  before  " 

With  young  Hope  at  her  side, 
And  thou  art  wild 
For  the  dear  child 

That  should  have  been  thy  bride  — 
For  her,  the  fair 
And  debonair, 

That  now  so  lowly  lies  — 
The  life  still  there 
Upon  her  hair, 

The  death  upon  her  eyes. 

"  Avaunt !  —  to-night 
My  hearkjs  light  —  4 

No  dirge  will  I  upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight 
.With  a  Pagan  of  old  days ! 
Let  wo  bell  toll ! 
Lest  her  sweet  soul, 

Amid  its  hallow'd  mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note 
As  it  doth  float 
Up  from  the  damned  earth  — 

To  friends  above,  from  fiends  be 
low,  th'  indignant  ghost  is 
riven  — 

From  grief  and  moan 
To  a  gold  throne 
Beside  the  King  of  Heaven." 
172 


NOTES 
DREAMLAND 

Dreamland.    "  Graham's  Magazine,"  June,  1844 ;  1845  ; 

"  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  26. 

TEXT.      1845.     Lorimer  Graham   copy.      Other   read 
ings  :  — 

12  tears  \  dews  G.  M. ;  1845 ;  B.  J. 
20  Insert  after  :- 

1-6,   as   above,   except,   5,   read   my   home   for 

these  lands,  and,  6,  this  for  an  G.  M. 
25  mountain   G.  M. ;  B.  J. 
38  Earth  \  worms    G.  M. ;  B.  J. 
Insert  after: — 

1-6,   as   above,    except,   5,    read  journeyed 
home  for  reached  these  lands,  and,  6,  this 
for  an  G.  M. 
47  its  |  the  G.  M. ;  B.  J. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST 

The  Valley  of  Unrest.  "American  Whig  Review," 
April,  1845 ;  1845 ;  "  Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  9  | 
The  Valley  Nis.  1831 ;  "  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger,"  February,  1836. 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 

18  rustles  Am.  W.  R. 

19  Unceasingly    Am.  W.  R. 
27  Insert  after: — 

They  wave ;  they  weep ;  and  the  tears  as  they  well 
From  the  depths  of  each  pallid  lily-bell, 
Give  a  trickle  and  a  tinkle  and  a  knell. 

Am.  W.  R. 

The   first  version   is   1831,   as   follows,   other  early 
readings  being  noted  below :  — 

173 


NOTES 
THE  VALLEY  NIS 

FAR  away  —  far  away  - 
Far  away  —  as  far  at  least 
Lies  that  valley  as  the  day 
Down  within  the  golden  east  — 
All  things  lovely —  are  not  they 
Far  away  —  far  away? 

It  is  called  the  valley  Nis. 

And  a  Syriac  tale  there  is 

Thereabout  which  Time  hath  said 

Shall  not  be  interpreted. 

Something  about  Satan's  dart  — 

Something  about  angel  wings  — 

Much  about  a  broken  heart  - 

All  about  unhappy  things : 

But  "  the  valley  Nis  "  at  best 

Means  "  the  valley  of  unrest.'* 
Once  it  smil'd  a  silent  dell 

Where  the  people  did  not  dwell, 

Having  gone  unto  the  wars  — 

And  the  sly,  mysterious  stars, 

With  a  visage  full  of  meaning, 

O'er  the  unguarded  flowers  were  leaning : 

Or  the  sun  ray  dripp'd  all  red 

Thro'  the  tulips  overhead, 

Then  grew  paler  as  it  fell 

On  the  quiet  Asphodel. 

Now  the  unhappy  shall  confess 
Nothing  there  is  motionless : 

6  Far  away  —  |  One  and  all,  too  S.  L.  M. 
24  the  |  tall  S.  L.  M. 

174 


NOTES 

Helen,  like  thy  human  eye 
There  th'  uneasy  violets  lie  — 
There  the  reedy  grass  doth  wave 
Over  the  old  forgotten  grave  — 
One  by  one  from  the  treetop 
There  the  eternal  dews  do  drop  — 
There  the  vague  and  dreamy  trees 
Do  roll  like  seas  in  northern  breeze 
Around  the  stormy  Hebrides  — 
There  the  gorgeous  clouds  do  fly, 
Rustling  everlastingly, 
Through  the  terror-stricken  sky, 
Rolling  like  a  waterfall 
O'er  the  horizon's  fiery  wall  - 
There  the  moon  doth  shine  by  night 
With  a  most  unsteady  light  — 
There  the  sun  doth  reel  by  day 
"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

27-46  Now  each  visiter  shall  confess 
Nothing  there  is  motionless : 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
O'er  the  enchanted  solitude, 
Save  the  airs  with  pinions  furled 
That  slumber  o'er  that  valley-world. 
No  wind  in  Heaven,  and  lo !  the  trees 
Do  roll  like  seas,  in  Northern  breeze, 
Around  the  stormy  Hebrides  — 
No  wind  in  Heaven,  and  clouds  do  fly, 
Rustling  everlastingly, 
Through  the  terror-stricken  sky, 
Rolling,  like  a  waterfall, 
O'er  th'  horizon's  fiery  wall  — 
And  Helen,  like  thy  human  eye, 
Low  crouched  on  Earth,  some  violets  lie, 
175 


NOTES 
THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA 

The  City  in  the  Sea.  "  American  Whig  Review  "  (sub 
title,  A  Prophecy),  April,  1845;  1845;  "Broad 
way  Journal,"  ii.  8  |  The  Doomed  City.  1831 ; 
The  City  of  Sin.  "  Southern  Literary  Messen 
ger,"  August,  1836. 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings :  - 

3  Far  off  in  a  region  unblest  Am.  W.  R. 
25  Around  the  mournful  waters  lie     " 
28-35  omit   Am.  W.  R. 
36  For  no  \  No  murmuring  Am.  W.  R. 
39  Some  \  a  Am.  W.  R. 
41  Seas  less  hideously   \   oceans  not  so  sad    Am. 

W.  R. 

The   first   version   is   1831,   as   follows,   other  early 
readings  being  noted  below:  — 

THE  DOOMED  CITY 

Lo !   Death  hath  rear'd  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city,  all  alone, 

Far  down  within  the  dim  west  — 

And  the  good,  and  the  bad,  and  the  worst,  and  the  best, 

Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 

And,  nearer  Heaven,  some  lilies  wave 
All  banner-like,  above  a  grave. 
And  one  by  one,  from  out  their  tops 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops, 
Ah,  one  by  one,  from  off  their  stems 
Eternal  dews  come  down  in  gems! 

S.  L.  M. 

4  And  |  Where  S.  L.  M. 
176 


NOTES 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 

Are  —  not  like  anything  of  ours  — 

O !  no  —  O !  no  —  ours  never  loom 

To  heaven  with  that  ungodly  gloom ! 

Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not! 

Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

A  heaven  that  God  doth  not  contemn 

With  stars  is  like  a  diadem 

We  liken  our  ladies'  eyes  to  them  — 

But  there !     That  everlasting  pall ! 

It  would  be  mockery  to  call 

Such  dreariness  a  heaven  at  all. 

Yet  tho'  no  holy  rays  come  down 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town, 

Light  from  the  lurid,  deep  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently  — 

Up  thrones  —  up  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptur'd  ivy  and  stone  flowers  - 

Up  domes  —  up  spires  —  up  kingly  halls  — 

Up  fanes  —  up  Babylon-like  walls  — 

Up  many  a  melancholy  shrine 

Whose  entablatures  intertwine 

The  mask  —  the  viol  —  and  the  vine. 

There  open  temples  —  open  graves 
Are  on  a  level  with  the  waves  — 
But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 
In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, 
Not  the  gayly-jewell'd  dead 

14-19  omit   S.  L.  M. 

20  No  holy  rays  from  heaven  come  down  S.  L.  M. 
22  But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea.    S.  L.  M. 
177 


NOTES 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed: 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas ! 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass  — 

No  swellings  hint  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  a  far-off  happier  sea: 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  the  high  towers  of  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

But  lo !   a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 

The  wave !   there  is  a  ripple  there ! 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrown  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide  — 

As  if  the  turret-tops  had  given 

A  vacuum  in  the  filmy  Heaven : 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow  — 

The  very  hours  are  breathing  low  — 

And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 

Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 

Shall  do  it  reverence, 

And  Death  to  some  more  happy  clime 

Shall  give  his  undivided  time. 

TO  ZANTE 

To  Zante.  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  January, 
1837;  Philadelphia  "Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4,  1843;  1845;  "Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  2. 

TEXT.    "  Southern  Literary  Messenger." 
NOTE.     CHATEAUBRIAND.     Itineraire  de  Paris  a  Jeru 
salem,    p.    15.      Je    souseris    a    ses    noms    d'  Isola 

53  Hell,  rising  \  All  Hades    S.  L.  M. 
178 


NOTES 

d'oro,  de  Fior  di  Levante.  Ce  nom  de  fleur  me 
rappelle  que  1'hyacinthe  etoit  originaire  de  Tile  de 
Zante,  et  que  cette  ile  re9ut  son  nom  de  la  plante 
qu'elle  avoit  portee. 

SILENCE 

Silence.  "Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  April, 
1840;  Philadelphia  "Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4,  1843;  1845;  "Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  3. 

TEXT.     1845.    Other  readings :  — 

2  which  thus  is  \  life  aptly  B.  M. ;  S.  M. 

3  A\The  B.  M.;S.  M. 

THE  COLISEUM 

The  Coliseum.  The  Baltimore  "Saturday  Visiter," 
1833;  "Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  August, 
1835;  Philadelphia  "Saturday  Evening  Post," 
June  12,  1841 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum," 
March  4,  1843;  1845 ;"  Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  1. 

TEXT.     1845.     No  copy  of  the  first  issue  is  known. 

Other  readings :  — 
11  Insert  after:  — 

Gaunt    vestibules    and   phantom-peopled   aisles 

S.  L.  M. 

20  gilded  \  yellow    S.  L.  M. 
21  Insert  after  :  — 

Here  where  on  ivory  couch  the  Caesar  sate 
On  bed  of  moss  lies  gloating  the  foul  adder 

S.  L.  M. 
26  But  stay  —  these  \  these  crumbling;  ivy-clad  \ 

tottering  S.  L.  M. 
28  crumbling  \  broken   S.  L.  M. 
31  famed  \  great  S.  L.  M. 
179 


NOTES 

36  melody  \  in  old  days   S.  L.  M. 
39  impotent  \  desolate  S.  L.  M. 

NOTES.     This  was  the  poem  offered  for  the  Baltimore 
prize.     See  Memoir. 

HYMN 

Hymn.  "Southern  Literary  Magazine,"  April,  1835 
[Morella];  "Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine," 
November,  1839  [Morella]  ;  "  Tales  of  the  Ara 
besque  and  Grotesque"  1840  [Morella];  1845; 
"  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  19  and  25  [Morella],  ii.  6. 

TEXT.    1845.    Other  readings :  — 
1  Insert  before : — 

Sancta  Maria!   turn  thine  eyes 
Upon  the  sinner's  sacrifice 
Of  fervent  prayer  and  humble  love 
From  thy  holy  throne  above. 

S.  L.  M.;  1840;  B.  G.  M.  (except 
2  the  |  a  B.  G.  M.;  1840). 

5  the  |  my;  brightly  \  gently  S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 

6  not    a    cloud    obscured    \    no    storms    were    in 

S.  L.  M.;  B.  G.  M. 

8  grace  \  love  S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 

9  storms  \  clouds   S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 
10  Darkly  \  All  S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 

ISRAFEL 

Israfel.     1831 ;  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  Au 
gust,     1836;     "Graham's     Magazine,"     October, 
1841 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4,  1843;  1845;  "Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  3. 
180 


POEMS 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 
iv.  3  Where  \  And  S.  M. ;  B.  J. 
iv.  4   Where  \  And  S.  M. ;  B.  J. 
v.  1  Thou  art  not,  therefore  S.  M. ;  B.  J. 
The  first  version  is  1831,  as  follows,  other  early  read 
ings  being  noted  below :  — 

ISRAFEL  l 


IN  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute; 
None  sing  so  wild  —  so  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel  — 
And  the  giddy  stars  are  mute. 

n 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 

Blushes  with  love  — 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

m 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  all  the  listening  things) 
That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 
With  those  unusual  strings. 

III.  4  owing  to  \  due  unto  G.  M. 

1  And  the  angel  Israfel,  who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all 
God's  creatures.  —  Koran. 

181 


NOTES 

IV 

But  the  Heavens  that  angel  trod, 
Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty  — 
Where  Love  is  a  grown  god  — 
Where  Houri  glances  are  — 
Stay !  turn  thine  eyes  afar ! 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  yon  star. 


Thou  art  not,  therefore,  wrong 
Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassion'd  song: 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 
Best  bard,  —  because  the  wisest. 

VI 

The  extacies  above 
With  thy  burning  measures  suit  — 
Thy  grief  —  if  any  —  thy  love 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  - 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

VII 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine:    but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours : 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  did  dwell  where  Israfel 
Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 

IV.  5  omit    S.  L.  M. ;  G.  M. 

182 


NOTES 

He  would  not  sing  one  half  as  well  — 
One  half  as  passionately, 
While  a  stormier  note  than  this  would  swell 
From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

NOTES.  The  motto  of  the  poem  was  derived  by  Poe 
from  Moore's  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  where  it  is  correctly 
attributed  to  Sale  (Preliminary  Discourse,  iv.  71). 
The  phrase,  "  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,"  was 
interpolated  by  Poe,  as  in  the  text. 

THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

The  Haunted  Palace.  Baltimore  "  Museum,"  April, 
1839;  "Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine"  [The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher],  September,  1839; 
Tales  [the  same]  1840 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday 
Museum,"  March  4,  1843 ;  1845 ;  Tales,  1845  [The 
Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher]. 

TEXT.  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum."  Other 
readings :  — 

I.  4  radiant    \    snow-white    B.    M. ;    1840;   B. 

G.  M. 
III.  1  all  wanderers   B.  M. 

8  ruler  \  sovereign  B.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 
IV.  5  sweet  \  sole   B.  G.  M. 

VI.  5  ghastly  rapid  \  rapid  ghastly;  B.  M. ;  B.  G. 
M.;  1840;  Tales,  1845. 

VIII.  4  as  |  so  G.  M. 

6  While  a  stormier  \  And  a  loftier  S.  L.  M. ; 
G.  M. 

183 


NOTES 

THE  CONQUEROR  WORM 

The  Conqueror  Worm.  "  Graham's  Magazine,"  Janu 
ary,  1843;  Philadelphia  "Saturday  Museum," 
March  4,  1843 ;  1845 ;  "  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  21 ; 
ii.  12  [Ligeia], 

TEXT.  1845.     Lorimer  Graham  copy.     Other  readings: 

I.  3  An  angel  \  A  mystic  G.  M. ;  S.  M. ;  B.  J. 
II.  5  -formless  \  shadowy   G.  M. 
IV.  7  seraphs  \  the  angels  all  other  editions. 
V.  2  quivering  \  dying   G.  M. ;  B.  J. 

5   While   |   And    all  editions;  angels   \   seraphs 
G.  M. ;  pallid  \  haggard  G.  M. 

8  And  omit  G.  M. ;  S.  M. ;  B.  J. 

ELDORADO 

Eldorado.    Flag  of  our  Union.    April  21, 1849. 
TEXT.     Flag  of  Our  Union. 

EULALIE 

Eulalie.  "American  Whig  Review"  (sub-title,  A 
Song)  July,  1845;  1845;  "Broadway  Journal," 
ii.  5. 

TEXT.     "  Broadway  Journal."     Other  readings :  — 

II.  6  morn-tints   A.  W.  R. 
III.  4  And  |  While  A.  W.  R. 

9  While  |  And  A.  W.  R. 
10  While  |  And  A.  W.  R. 

THE  BELLS 

The  Bells.     "  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,"  November, 

1849. 
TEXT.     "  Sartain's  Union  Magazine."     An  account  of 

a  draft  and  a  manuscript  is  given  below. 
184 


NOTES 

NOTES.    "  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,"  December,  1849. 

"  The  singular  poem  of  Mr.  Poe's,  called  '  The  Bells,' 
which  we  published  in  our  last  number,  has  been  very 
extensively  copied.  There  is  a  curious  piece  of  literary 
history  connected  with  this  poem,  which  we  may  as 
well  give  now  as  at  any  other  time.  It  illustrates  the 
gradual  development  of  an  idea  in  the  mind  of  a  man  of 
original  genius.  This  poem  came  into  our  possession 
about  a  year  since.  It  then  consisted  of  eighteen  lines! 
They  were  as  follows: 

"THE  BELLS.  — A  SONG 

"  THE  bells !  —  hear  the  bells ! 
The  merry  wedding  bells ! 
The  little  silver  bells ! 
How  fairy-like  a  melody  there  swells 
From  the  silver  tinkling  cells 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
Of  the  bells ! 

"  The  bells !  —  ah,  the  bells ! 
The  heavy  iron  bells ! 
Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  knells ! 

How  horrible  a  monody  there  floats 
From  their  throats  — 
From  their  deep-toned  throats! 
How  I  shudder  at  the  notes 

From  the  melancholy  throats 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
Of  the  bells! 

"  About  six  months  after  this  we  received  the  poem 
enlarged  and  altered  nearly  to  its  present  size  and 

185 


NOTES 

form;  and  about  three  months  since,  the  author  sent 
another  alteration  and  enlargement,  in  which  condition 
the  poem  was  left  at  the  time  of  his  death." 

Gill,  "  Life  of  Poe,"  p.  207:  — 

"  The  original  MS.  of  '  The  Bells,'  in  its  enlarged 
form,  from  which  the  draft  sent  to  '  Sartain's  '  was 
made,  is  in  our  possession  at  this  time. 

"  In  the  twelfth  line  of  the  first  stanza  of  the  origi 
nal  draft,  the  word  *  bells  '  was  repeated  five  times, 
instead  of  four,  as  Poe  printed  it,  and  but  twice  in  the 
next  line.  In  changing  and  obviously  improving  the 
effect,  he  has  drawn  his  pen  through  the  fifth  repetition, 
and  added  another,  underlined,  to  the  two  of  the  next 
line.  The  same  change  is  made  in  the  corresponding 
lines  in  the  next  stanza.  In  the  sixth  line  of  the  third 
stanza,  the  word  '  much '  is  placed  before  *  too  '  with 
the  usual  mark  indicating  the  transposition  which  he 
made  in  printing  it,  and,  as  originally  written,  the  word 
'anger,'  in  the  fifth  line  from  the  last  in  this  stanza, 
was  written  '  clamor,'  while  *  anger '  was  placed  in  the 
last  line.  ...  In  the  sixth  line  of  the  fourth  stanza,  the 
word  '  meaning '  was  first  used  in  lieu  of  the  more  im 
pressive  *  menace,'  to  which  it  gave  place.  The  eighth 
line  of  this  stanza  was  first  written,  '  From  out  their 
ghostly  throats ; '  and  the  eleventh  line  was  changed 
twice,  reading  first,  *  Who  live  up  in  the  steeple,'  then 
'  They  that  sleep  '  was  substituted  for  '  who  live,'  and 
finally  *  dwell '  was  printed  instead  of  '  sleep.'  After  the 
eighteenth  line,  a  line  was  added  that  was  elided  entirely 
in  the  poem  as  printed.  It  read,  — 

"  '  But  are  pestilential  carcasses  departed  from  their 
souls.' 

186 


NOTES 

"  ...  In  making  the  change,  omitting  this  line,  he 
simply  substituted,  '  They  are  ghouls,'  in  the  next  line, 
in  pencil." 

Ingram,  "Life  of  Poe,"  ii.  155-156:-— 

"  It  was  shortly  after  this,  during  the  summer,  that 
Poe  wrote  the  first  rough  draft  of  '  The  Bells,'  and  at 
Mrs.  Shew's  residence.  '  One  day  he  came  in,'  she 
records  [in  her  diary],  'and  said,  "Marie  Louise,  I 
have  to  write  a  poem ;  I  have  no  feeling,  no  sentiment, 
no  inspiration."  His  hostess  persuaded  him  to  have 
some  tea.  It  was  served  in  the  conservatory,  the  win 
dows  of  which  were  open,  and  admitted  the  sound  of 
neighboring  church  bells.  Mrs.  Shew  said,  playfully, 
'  Here  is  paper ; '  but  the  poet,  declining  it,  declared,  '  I 
so  dislike  the  noise  of  bells  to-night,  I  cannot  write. 
I  have  no  subject  —  I  am  exhausted.'  The  lady  then 
took  up  the  pen,  and,  pretending  to  mimic  his  style, 
wrote,  '  The  Bells,  by  E.  A.  Poe ; '  and  then,  in  pure 
sportiveness,  *  The  Bells,  the  little  silver  Bells,'  Poe 
finishing  off  the  stanza.  She  then  suggested  for  the 
next  verse,  '  The  heavy  iron  Bells ; '  and  this  Poe  also 
expanded  into  a  stanza.  He  next  copied  out  the  com 
plete  poem,  and  headed  it,  '  By  Mrs.  M.  L.  Shew,'  re 
marking  that  it  was  her  poem,  as  she  had  suggested  and 
composed  so  much  of  it.  Mrs.  Shew  continues,  '  My 
brother  came  in,  and  I  sent  him  to  Mrs.  Clemm  to  tell 
her  that  "  her  boy  would  stay  in  town,  and  was  well." 
My  brother  took  Mr.  Poe  to  his  own  room,  where  he 
slept  twelve  hours,  and  could  hardly  recall  the  evening's 
work.'  " 

Chateaubriand.     Genie  du  Christianisme,  ii.  261. 

"  II  nous  semble  que  si  nous  etions  poete,  nous  ne 
dedaignerions  point  cette  cloche  agitee  par  les  fantomes 

187 


NOTES 

dans  la  vieille  chapelle  de  la  foret,  ni  celle  qu'une  re- 
ligieuse  frayeur  balan9oit  dans  nos  campagnes  pour 
ecarter  le  tonnerre,  ni  celle  qu'on  sonnoit  la  nuit,  dans 
certains  ports  de  mer,  pour  diriger  le  pilote  a  travers 
les  ecueils.  Les  carillons  des  cloches,  au  milieu  de  nos 
fetes,  sembloient  augmenter  1'allegresse  publique;  dans 
des  calamites,  au  contraire,  ces  memes  bruits  devenoient 
terribles.  Les  cheveux  dressent  encore  sur  la  tete  au 
souvenir  de  ces  jours  de  meurtre  et  de  feu,  retentissant 
des  clameurs  du  tocsin.  Qui  de  nous  a  perdu  la  memoire 
de  ces  Imrlements,  de  ces  cris  aigus,  entrecoupes  de 
silences,  durant  lesquels  on  distinguoit  de  rares  coups 
de  fusil,  quelque  voix  lamentable  et  solitaire,  et  surtout 
le  bourdonnement  de  la  cloche  d'alarme,  ou  le  son  de 
Phorologe  qui  frappoit  tranquillement  Pheure  ecoulee?  " 

ANNABEL  LEE 

Annabel  Lee.     New  York  "Tribune,"  Oct.  9,  1849; 

"  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  November,  1849  ; 

"  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,"  January,  1850. 
TEXT.     "  Tribune."     Other  readings :  - 

II.  1  7  ...  She  \  She  ...  I  S.  L.  M. ;  S.  U.  M. 
III.  5  kinsman   S.  U.  M. 

VI.  8  sounding  \  side  of  the  S.  L.  M. 

ULALUME 

Ulalume.      "American   Whig   Review"    (sub-title,   To 
— ),  December,  1847;  "Home  Journal," 

Jan.   1,  1848;  literary  World,  March  3,  1849; 

Griswold,  1850. 
TEXT.    Griswold,  1850.    Other  readings :  — 

III.  9  We  remembered  Am.  W.  R. ;  H.  J. 
VIII.  5  But  |  And  Am.  W.  R. ;  H.  J. 

IX.  13  This  |  In  the  Am.  W.  R. ;  H.  J. 
188 


NOTES 

Insert  after : — 

Said  we,  then  —  the  two,  then  —  "  Ah,  can  it 
Have  been  that  the  woodlandish  ghouls 
The  pitiful,  the  merciless  ghouls  — 

To  bar  up  our  way  and  to  ban  it 

From  the  secret  that  lies  in  these  wolds  — 
From  the  thing  that  lies  hidden  in  these  wolds  — 

Had  drawn  up  the  spectre  of  a  planet 
From  the  limbo  of  lunary  souls 

This  sinfully  scintillant  planet 

From  the  Hell  of  the  planetary  souls. 

Am.  W.  R. :  H.  J. 

NOTES.    "  Home  Journal,"  Jan.  1,  1848. 

'*  We  do  not  know  how  many  readers  we  have  who 
will  enjoy,  as  we  do,  the  following  exquisitely  piquant 
and  skilful  exercise  of  variety  and  niceness  of  language. 
It  is  a  poem  which  we  find  in  the  '  American  Review,' 
full  of  beauty  and  oddity  in  sentiment  and  versification, 
but  a  curiosity  (and  a  delicious  one  we  think)  in  philo- 
logic  flavor.  Who  is  the  author?  "  Poe  had  requested 
Willis  to  ask  the  question  (Poe  to  Willis.  Dec.  8, 
1847). 

SCENES  FROM  POLITIAN 

Scenes   -from  Politian.      "  Southern   Literary   Messen 
ger,"  December,  1835,  January,  1836;  1845. 
TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings,  S.  L.  M. :  — 

II.  99  This  sacred  \  A  vow  —  a 
III.     6  Surely  \  I  live  - 

57  Eloquent  \  voice  —  that 

58  I  surely 

63  it  |  that  lattice 
101  Believe  me  \  Baldazzar!    Oh! 
189 


NOTES 

IV.     5  sob  |  weep 

6  mourn  \  weep 

9  turn  here  thine  eyes  \  and  listen  to  me 
30  to  me  \  speak  not 

V.     7  Paradisal  Hope  \  hopes  —  gfoe  me  to  live 
44  Insert  after :  — 

If  that  we  meet  at  all  it  were  as  well 
That  I  should  meet  him  in  the  Vatican  — 
In  the  Vatican  —  within  the  holy  walls 
Of  the  Vatican. 
58  then  at  once  \  — have  at  thee  then 

62  thy  sacred  \  hold  off  thy 

63  indeed  I  dare  not  \  I  dare  not,  dare  not. 
65  Insert  after: — 

exceeding  well!  —  thou  darest  not  fight 
with  me? 

70  Insert  after :  — 

Thou  darest  not! 

71  my  lord  \  alas! 

73  the  veriest  \  —  /  am  —  a 

92  Thou  liest  \  By  God;  indeed  \  — now  this 

TO  HELEN 

To  Helen.  1831;  "Southern  Literary  Messenger," 
March,  1836 ;  "  Graham's  Magazine,"  September, 
1841 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4, 1843;  1845. 

TEXT.       Philadelphia    "Saturday    Museum."       Other 
readings :  — 
II.  4  glory   that   was    \    beauty   of  fair    1831; 

S.  L.  M. 

5  that  was  \  of  old  1831 ;  S.  L.  M. 
III.  1  yon  brilliant  \  that  little    1831;   S.  L.  M.; 
shadowy  G.  M. 
190 


NOTES 

3  agate  lamp  \  folded  scroll  1831 ;  S.  L.  M. ; 

G.  M. 

4  Ah  |  A  1831. 

TO  F 


To  F .     1845.     "  Broadway  Journal,"  i.  17  |  To 

Mary.  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  July, 
1835.  To  One  Departed.  "  Graham's  Magazine," 
March,  1842 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum," 
March  4,  1843. 

TEXT,  1845.    Other  readings :  — 

I.  1  Mary  amid  the  cares  —  the  woes   S.  L.  M. 

For  'mid  the  earnest  cares  and  woes   G.  M. ; 
S.  M. 

2  That  crowd  \  crowding  S.  L.  M. 

3  Drear  \  Sad   S.  L.  M. ;  G.  M. ;  S.  M. 
7  bland  \  sweet   S.  L.  M. 

II.   1  And  thus  \  Seraph  G.  M. ;  S.  M. 

4  Some  lake  beset  as  lake  can  be  S.  L.  M. 
throbbing  far  and  free  \  vexed  as  it  may  be 

G.  M. ;  S.  M. 
G.  M.  and  S.  M.  reverse  the  order  of  the  stanzas. 

NOTES.  "  F—  '  is,  presumably,  Mrs.  Frances  Sar 
gent  Osgood.  See  Memoir. 

TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE 

To  One  in  Paradise.  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Mu 
seum,"  March  4,  1843;  1845;  |  "  [Godey's]  La 
dy's  Book"  [The  Visionary],  January,  1834; 
"  Southern  Literary  Messenger "  [The  Vision 
ary],  July,  1835;  "Tales  of  the  Arabesque  and 
Grotesque"  [The  Visionary],  1840;  "Broadway 
Journal,"  i.  19,  i.  23  [The  Assignation].  |  To 


NOTES 

lanthe  in  Heaven.    "  Burton's  Gentleman's  Maga 
zine,"  July,  1839. 
TEXT.   1845.    Lorimer  Graham  copy. 

1.  1   all  that  |  that  all   all  other  editions. 

5  with   fairy    fruits    and        round    with    wild 
Go.    around  about  with  S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M, ; 
1840. 

6  all  the  flowers  \  the  flowers  —  they  all   S.  L. 
M. ;  B.  G.  M. ;  1840. 

II.  1  But  the  dream  —  it  could  not  last  Go. ;  S.  L. 

M. ;  B.  G.  M. ;  1840. 
£  Young  Hope!    thou  didst  arise    Go. ;  And 

the  star  of  Hope  did  rise.     S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G. 

M. ;  1840. 
Ah  |  Oh!   S.  M. 
5»"0ra/  on"  —  but  |  "Onward"     Go.;  S.  L. 

M.;  B.  G.  M.;  1840;  B.  J.;  but  \  while  Go.; 

S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. ;  1840. 

III.  2  Ambition  —  all  —  is  o'er   Go. ;  S.  L.  M. ;  B. 

G.  M. ;  1840. 
4  solemn  \  breaking   Go. 
IV.  1  days  \  hours  Go. ;  S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. ;  1840 ; 

And  |  Now  B.  J. 
3  grey  \  dark  all  other  editions. 
6    eternal    Italian  Go. ;  S.  L.  M. ;  1840 ;  B.  J. ; 

what  |  far  Go. 
Insert  after :  — 

Alas !  for  that  accursed  time 

They  bore  thee  o'er  the  billow, 
From  Love  to  titled  age  and  crime 

And  an  unholy  pillow  — 
From  me,  and  from  our  misty  clime 
Where  weeps  the  silver  willow. 

S.  L.  M.;  1840;  Go.   except 
192 


NOTES 

3  Love  |  me 
5  me  |  Love 

A  correspondent  of  the  London  "  Spectator,"  Jan.  1, 
1853,  contributed  a  version  from  a  manuscript  long  in 
his  possession.  It  was  reprinted  in  the  New  York 
"Literary  World,"  Feb.  5,  1853.  It  is  the  same  as 
that  of  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  except 

I.  1   that   omit 

II.  %  And  the  star  of  life  did  rise 
3  But  |  Only 

III.  1-5  Like  the  murmur  of  the  solemn  sea 

To  sands  on  the  sea-shore 
A  voice  is  whispering  unto  me 

"The  day  is  past,"  and  nevermore 

IV.  1  And  all  mine  hours 

2  nightly  \  nights  are 

3  Are  \  Of 

5-6  In  the  maze  of  flashing  dances 
By  the  slow  Italian  streams. 

The  correspondent  had  supposed  the  lines  to  be  by 
Tennyson,  and  charged  Poe  with  plagiarism.  Ten 
nyson,  under  date  of  Jan.  80,  1853,  wrote  to  the  "  Spec 
tator  "  to  correct  the  statement  and  cleared  Poe  of  the 
charge.  The  incident  led  an  American  correspondent 
to  send  to  the  "  Literary  World  "  a  copy  of  the  first 
version  from  "  Godey's  Lady's  Book,"  and  the  text  of 
Godey  given  above  is  here  printed  from  that  source. 

TO  F-    -S  S.  O D 

To  F s  S.  0 d  [Frances  S.  Osgood].    1845  ;  | 

Lines  written  in  an  Album.     "  Southern  Literary 

Messenger,"  September,  1835.     To .     "Bur- 

193 


NOTES 

ton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  August,  1839.     To 
F .     "  Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  10,  lines  1-4. 

TEXT.     1845.    Other  readings :  — 

1  Eliza,  let  thy  generous  heart   S.  L.  M. 

Fair  maiden,  let  thy  generous  heart  B.  G.  M. 

6  grace,  thy  more  than    \    unassuming   S.  L.  M. ; 

B.  G.  M. 

7  shall  be  an  endless  \   And  truth  shall  be  a  S.  L. 

M. ;  Thy  truth  —  shall  be  a  B.  G.  M. 

8  Forever  —  and  love  a  duty   S.  L.  M. ;  B.  G.  M. 

NOTES.  "  Eliza "  was  the  young  daughter  of  Mr. 
White,  editor  of  the  "Messenger."  For  Mrs. 
Osgood  see  Memoir. 

A  VALENTINE 

A  Valentine.  "  Sartain's  Union  Magazine,"  March, 
1849;  "Flag  of  our  Union,"  March  3,  1849. 

TEXT.  "  Sartain's  Union  Magazine."  Other  read 
ings  :  — 

1  this  rhyme  is  \  these  lines  are  F.  U. 

4  the  \  this    F.  U. 

5  the  lines!   they  hold  \  this  rhyme,  which  holds 

F.  U. 
8  syllables  \  letters  themselves   F.  U. 

12  comprehend  \  understand  F.  U. 

13  the  leaf  where  now  \  this  page  whereon    F.  U. 

14  Such  eager  eyes,  there  lies,  I  say  perdu,   F.  U. 

15  Three  eloquent   words     \     A    well-known  name 

F.  U. 

NOTES.     To  find  the  name,  read  the  first  letter  in  the 

first  line,  the  second  in  the  second,  and  so  on. 

194 


NOTES 

AN  ENIGMA 

An  Enigma.  \  Sonnet.     "  Union  Magazine."     March, 

1848. 

TEXT.     "Union  Magazine." 
NOTES.     To  find  the  name,  read  as  in  the  preceding 

poem. 
10  Tuckermanities  \  Petrarchmanities   U.  M. 

TO  HELEN 

To  Helen.  \  To-  -  "Union  Magazine," 

November,  1848. 
TEXT.     Griswold. 

26-28  0  Heaven  .  .  .  me  omit  S.  U.  M. 
NOTES.      "  Helen  "   was   Mrs.   Whitman ;   see  Memoir, 

and  compare  "  The  Raven  "  in  her  poems. 

TO  - 

To  (I  heed  not  that  my  earthly  lot).    ||    Alone, 

MS. ;  To  M .     1829. 

TEXT.    Griswold.    Other  readings,  1829,  the  variations 

from  it  of  the  Wilmer  MS.  being  noted. 

1  I  heed  \  01  I  care  MS. 

4  Hatred  \  fever   MS. 

5  mourn  \  heed  MS. 

7  sorrow  for  \  meddle  with    MS. 

8  Insert  after:  — 

It  is  not  that  my  founts  of  bliss 
Are  gushing  —  strange !  with  tears  — 
Or  that  the  thrill  of  a  single  kiss 
Hath  palsied  many  years  — 

'T  is  not  that  the  flowers  of  twenty  springs 
Which  have  wither'd  as  they  rose 
Lie  dead  on  my  heart-strings 
With  the  weight  of  an  age  of  snows. 
195 


NOTES 

Nor  that  the  grass  —  O !   may  it  thrive ! 
On  my  grave  is  growing  or  grown  — 
But  that,  while  I  am  dead  yet  alive 
I  cannot  be,  lady,  alone. 

The  MS.   gives   the   following  variations    from   the 
above : 
9  It  is  not  |  I  heed  not 

10  Are  gushing  \  Be  gushing,  oh! 

11  Or  that  the  thrill  of  a  single  \  That  the  tremor 

of  one 

19  yet  |  and 

20  lady  \  love 

TO  M.  L.  S 

To  M.  L.  S .     "  Home  Journal,"  March  13,  1847. 

TEXT.     "Home  Journal." 

NOTES.  Introduced  in  the  "  Home  Journal  "  by  the 
following  editorial  note:  "The  following  seems 
said  over  a  hand  clasped  in  the  speaker's  two.  It 
is  by  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  is  evidently  the  pouring 
out  of  a  very  deep  feeling  of  gratitude."  "  M. 
L.  S."  was  Mrs.  Shew ;  see  Memoir. 


TO 


To .     "  Columbian  Magazine,"  March,  1848. 

TEXT.     Griswold.     Other1  readings :  — 

The  original  publication,  which  is  identified  by  an 
index  number  of  the  magazine  only,  has  not  been  found. 
The  following  manuscript  variation  exists  in  facsimile. 
The  first  seven  lines  show  no  variation.  The  poem  then 
continues :  — 

196 


NOTES 

TO  MARIE  LOUISE 

Two  gentle  sounds  made  only  to  be  murmured 

By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moon-lit  "  dew 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill " 

Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart 

Unthought-like     thoughts  —  scarcely     the     shades     of 

thought  — 

Bewildering  fantasies  —  far  richer  visions 
Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israfel, 
Who  "  had  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures," 
Would  hope  to  utter.    Ah,  Marie  Louise ! 
In  deep  humility  I  own  that  now 

All  pride  —  all  thought  of  power  —  all  hope  of  fame  — 
All  wish  for  Heaven — is  merged  forevermore 
Beneath  the  palpitating  tide  of  passion 
Heaped  o'er  my  soul  by  thee.     Its  spells  are  broken  — 
The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand  — 
With  that  dear  name  as  text  I  cannot  write  - 
I  cannot  speak  —  I  cannot  even  think  - 
Alas  !   I  cannot  feel ;  for  't  is  not  feeling  - 
This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 
Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  Dreams, 
Gazing,  entranced,  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 
And  thrilling  as  I  see  upon  the  right  — 
Upon  the  left  —  and  all  the  way  along, 
Amid  the  clouds  of  glory :   far  away 
To  where  the  prospect  terminates  —  thee  only. 

NOTES.     "  Marie  Louise  "  was  Mrs.  Shew ;  see  Memoir. 

FOR  ANNIE 

For  Annie.     "Flag  of  our  Union,"  April  28,  1849; 

Griswold,  1850. 

TEXT.     Griswold.    No  file  of  the  paper  is  known. 
NOTES.    "  Annie"  was  Mrs.  Richmond  of  Lowell,  Mass. 

197 


NOTES 
TO  MY  MOTHER 

To  My  Mother.    "  Flag  of  our  Union,"  July  7,  1849 ; 

Southern   Literary   Messenger,   December,   1849; 

Leaflets  of  Memory,  1850. 
TEXT.    "  Flag  of  our  Union."    Other  readings :  — 

1  I  feel  that  \  the  angels  S.  L,  M. ;  L.  M. 

2  The  angels  whispering  to        Devoutly  singing 

unto   S.  L.  M. ;  L.  M. 

3  among  \  amid  S.  L.  M. ;  L.  M. 
5  dear  \  sweet  S.  L.  M. ;  L.  M. 

7  And  fill;  death  \  Filling;  God   S.  L.  M.;  L.  M. 

11  one  |  dead   S.  L.  M. ;  L.  M. 

12  Are  thus  more  precious  than  the  one  I  knew 

S.  L.  M. ;  L.  M. 
NOTES.     His  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Clemm. 

TAMERLANE 

Tamerlane.     1827,  1829,  1831,  1845. 
TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 

The  first  version  is  1827,  as  follows,  the  variations 
of  the  Wilmer  MS.  being  noted  below:  — 

TAMERLANE 


I  HAVE  sent  for  thee,  holy  friar^1) 
But  't  was  not  with  the  drunken  hope, 
Which  is  but  agony  of  desire 
To  shun  the  fate,  with  which  to  cope 
Is  more  than  crime  may  dare  to  dream, 
That  I  have  call'd  thee  at  this  hour: 
Such,  father,  is  not  my  theme  — 
Nor  am  I  mad,  to  deem  that  power 
Of  earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
198 


NOTES 

Unearthly  pride  hath  revell'd  in  — 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 
But  hope  is  not  a  gift  of  thine; 
If  I  can  hope  (O  God!  I  can) 
It  falls  from  an  eternal  shrine. 


ii 


The  gay  wall  of  this  gaudy  tower 
Grows  dim  around  me  —  death  is  near. 
I  had  not  thought,  until  this  hour 
When  passing  from  the  earth,  that  ear 
Of  any,  were  it  not  the  shade 
Of  one  whom  in  life  I  made 
All  mystery  but  a  simple  name, 
Might  know  the  secret  of  a  spirit 
Bow'd  down  in  sorrow,  and  in  shame.  — 
Shame,  said'st  thou? 

Ay,  I  did  inherit 
That  hated  portion,  with  the  fame, 
The  worldly  glory,  which  has  shown 
A  demon-light  around  my  throne, 
Scorching  my  sear'd  heart  with  a  pain 
Not  Hell  shall  make  me  fear  again. 


m 


I  have  not  always  been  as  now  — 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 
I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly  — 
Ay  —  the  same  heritage  hath  given 
Rome  to  the  Caesar — this  to  me; 
The  heirdom  of  a  kingly  mind  — 
And  a  proud  spirit,  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 
199 


NOTES 

In  mountain  air  I  first  drew  life; 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed  (2) 
Nightly  their  dews  on  my  young  head; 
And  my  brain  drank  their  venom  then, 
When  after  day  of  perilous  strife 
With  chamois,  I  would  seize  his  den 
And  slumber,  in  my  pride  of  power, 
The  infant  monarch  of  the  hour  — 
For,  with  the  mountain  dew  by  night, 
My  soul  imbibed  unhallow'd  feeling; 
And  I  would  feel  its  essence  stealing 
In  dreams  upon  me  —  while  the  light 
Flashing  from  cloud  that  hover'd  o'er, 
Would  seem  to  my  half-closing  eye 
The  pageantry  of  monarchy! 
And  the  deep  thunder's  echoing  roar 
Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  war,  and  tumult,  where  my  voice, 
My  own  voice,  silly  child!  was  swelling 
(0  how  would  my  wild  heart  rejoice 
And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 
The  battle-cry  of  victory! 


IV 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  head 
But  barely  shelter'd  —  and  the  wind 
Pass'd  quickly  o'er  me  —  but  my  mind 
Was  maddening — for  't  was  man  that  shed 
Laurels  upon  me  —  and  the  rush, 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air 
Gurgled  in  my  pleased  ear  the  crush 
Of  empires,  with  the  captive's  prayer, 
The  hum  of  suitors,  the  mix'd  tone 
Of  flattery  round  a  sovereign's  throne. 
200 


NOTES 

The  storm  had  ceased  —  and  I  awoke  — 
Its  spirit  cradled  me  to  sleep, 
And  as  it  pass'd  me  by,  there  broke 
Strange  light  upon  me,  tho'  it  were 
My  soul  in  mystery  to  steep : 
For  I  was  not  as  I  had  been ; 
The  child  of  Nature,  without  care, 
Or  thought,  save  of  the  passing  scene.  — 


My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 
Usurp'd  a  tyranny,  which  men 
Have  deem'd,  since  I  have  reach'd  to  power, 
My  innate  nature  —  be  it  so: 
But,  father,  there  lived  one  who,  then  — 
Then,  in  my  boyhood,  when  their  fire 
Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow; 
(For  passion  must  with  youth  expire) 
Even  then,  who  deem'd  this  iron  heart 
In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words,  alas !  to  tell 
The  loveliness  of  loving  well! 
Nor  would  I  dare  attempt  to  trace 
The  breathing  beauty  of  a  face, 
Which  even  to  my  impassion'd  mind, 
Leaves  not  its  memory  behind. 
In  spring  of  life  have  ye  ne'er  dwelt 
Some  object  of  delight  upon, 
With  steadfast  eye,  till  ye  have  felt 
The  earth  reel — and  the  vision  gone? 
And  I  have  held  to  memory's  eye 

V.  14  breathing  \  more  than    MS. 
15  my  |  this   MS. 
21  And  I  have    So  have  I  MS. 


NOTES 

One  object  —  and  but  one  —  until 
Its  very  form  hath  pass'd  me  by, 
But  left  its  influence  with  me  still. 

VI 

'T  is  not  to  thee  that  I  should  name  — 
Thou  canst  not  —  wouldst  not  dare  to  think 
The  magic  empire  of  a  flame 
Which  even  upon  this  perilous  brink 
Hath  fix'd  my  soul,  tho'  unforgiven, 
By  what  it  lost  for  passion  —  Heaven. 
I  loved  —  and  O,  how  tenderly! 
Yes!  she  [was]  worthy  of  all  love! 
Such  as  in  infancy  was  mine, 
Tho'  then  its  passion  could  not  be: 
'T  was  such  as  angel  minds  above 
Might  envy  —  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 
Were  incense  —  then  a  goodly  gift  — 
For  they  were  childish,  without  sin, 
Pure  as  her  young  example  taught; 
Why  did  I  leave  it  and  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fickle  star  within? 

VII 

We  grew  in  age  and  love  together, 
Roaming  the  forest  and  the  wild; 
My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather, 
And  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smiled 
And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 
I  saw  no  Heaven  but  in  her  eyes  — 
Even  childhood  knows  the  human  heart; 
For  when,  in  sunshine  and  in  smiles, 
From  all  our  little  cares  apart, 
202 


NOTES 

Laughing  at  her  half  silly  wiles, 
I  'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 
And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears, 
She'd  look  up  in  my  wilder'd  eye  — 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest  — 
No  need  to  quiet  her  kind  fears  — 
She  did  not  ask  the  reason  why. 

The  hallow'd  memory  of  those  years 
Comes  o'er  me  in  these  lonely  hours, 
And,  with  sweet  loveliness,  appears 
As  perfume  of  strange  summer  flowers ; 
Of  flowers  which  we  have  known  before 
In  infancy,  which  seen,  recall 
To  mind  —  not  flowers  alone  —  but  more, 
Our  earthly  life,  and  love  —  and  all. 

vni 

Yes !  she  was  worthy  of  all  love ! 
Even  such  as  from  the  accursed  time 
My  spirit  with  the  tempest  strove, 
When  on  the  mountain  peak  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone, 
And  bade  it  first  to  dream  of  crime, 
My  frenzy  to  her  bosom  taught : 
We  still  were  young:  no  purer  thought 
Dwelt  in  a  seraph's  breast  than  thine;  (3) 
For  passionate  love  is  still  divine: 
7  loved  her  as  an  angel  might 

VIII.  1  Such  as  I  taught  her  from  the  time  MS. 

7-10  There  were  no  holier  thoughts  than  thine 

MS. 
11  her  |  thee  MS. 

9.03 


NOTES 

With  ray  of  the  all  living  light 

Which  blazes  upon  Edis'  shrine.  (4) 

It  is  not  surely  sin  to  name, 

With  such  as  mine  —  that  mystic  flame, 

I  had  no  being  but  in  thee ! 

The  world  with  all  its  train  of  bright 

And  happy  beauty  (for  to  me 

All  was  an  undefined  delight), 

The  world  —  its  joy  —  its  share  of  pain 

Which  I  felt  not  —  its  bodied  forms 

Of  varied  being,  which  contain 

The  bodiless  spirits  of  the  storms, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  calm  —  the  ideal 

And  fleeting  vanities  of  dreams, 

Fearfully  beautiful !  the  real 

Nothings  of  mid  day  waking  life  — 

Of  an  enchanted  life,  which  seems, 

Now  as  I  look  back,  the  strife 

Of  some  ill  demon,  with  a  power 

Which  left  me  in  an  evil  hour, 

All  that  I  felt,  or  saw,  or  thought, 

Crowding,  confused  became 

(With  thine  unearthly  beauty  fraught) 

Thou  —  and  the  nothing  of  a  name. 

IX 

The  passionate  spirit  which  hath  known, 
And  deeply  felt  the  silent  tone 
Of  its  own  self-supremacy,— 
(I  speak  thus  openly  to  thee, 

21   Which  I  felt  not  \  Unheeded  then   MS, 
30  Some  \  an  MS. 
33  confused  \  confusedly   MS. 
IX.  4-10  omit  MS. 

204 


NOTES 

'T  were  folly  now  to  veil  a  thought 

With  which  this  aching  breast  is  fraught) 

The  soul  which  feels  its  innate  right  — 

The  mystic  empire  and  high  power 

Given  by  the  energetic  might 

Of  Genius,  at  its  natal  hour; 

Which  knows  (believe  me  at  this  time, 

When  falsehood  were  a  tenfold  crime, 

There  is  a  power  in  the  high  spirit 

To  know  the  fate  it  will  inherit) 

The  soul,  which  knows  such  power,  will  still 

Find  Pride  the  ruler  of  its  will. 

Yes !  I  was  proud  —  and  ye  who  know 
The  magic  of  that  meaning  word, 
So  oft  perverted,  will  bestow 
Your  scorn,  perhaps,  when  ye  have  heard 
That  the  proud  spirit  had  been  broken, 
The  proud  heart  burst  in  agony 
At  one  upbraiding  word  or  token 
Of  her  that  heart's  idolatry  — 
I  was  ambitious  —  have  ye  known 
Its  fiery  passion?  —  ye  have  not  — 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne 
Of  half  the  world,  as  all  my  own, 
And  murmur'd  at  such  lowly  lot ! 
But  it  had  pass'd  me  as  a  dream 
Which,  of  light  step,  flies  with  the  dew, 
That  kindling  thought  —  did  not  the  beam 
Of  Beauty,  which  did  guide  it  through 

11  me  at  this  time  \  for  now  on  me  MS. 

12  Truth  flashes  thro9  eternity   MS. 
15  knows  |  feels    MS. 

26  Its  |  The  MS. 

205 


NOTES 

The  livelong  summer  day,  oppress 
My  mind  with  double  loveliness  — 


We  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 
Of  a  high  mountain,  which  look'd  down 
Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 
Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills  — 
The  dwindled  hills,  whence  amid  bowers 
Her  own  fair  hand  had  rear'd  around, 
Gush'd  shoutingly  a  thousand  rills, 
Which  as  it  were,  in  fairy  bound 
Embraced  two  hamlets  —  those  our  own  — 
Peacefully  happy  —  yet  alone  — 

•          • 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride  — 
But  mystically,  in  such  guise, 
That  she  might  deem  it  nought  beside 
The  moment's  converse ;  in  her  eyes 
I  read  (perhaps  too  carelessly) 
A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own; 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me, 
Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well,  that  I  should  let  it  be 
A  light  in  the  dark  wild,  alone. 

XI 

There  —  in  that  hour  —  a  thought  came  o'er 
My  mind,  it  had  not  known  before  — 

X.  6  own  lair   \   magic    MS. 
8-10  Encircling  with  a  glittering  bound 

Of  diamond  sunshine  and  sweet  spray 
Two  mossy  huts  of  the  Taglay 
206 


NOTES 

To  leave  her  while  we  both  were  young, — 

To  follow  my  high  fate  among 

The  strife  of  nations,  and  redeem 

The  idle  words,  which,  as  a  dream 

Now  sounded  to  her  heedless  ear  — 

I  held  no  doubt  —  I  knew  no  fear 

Of  peril  in  my  wild  career; 

To  gain  an  empire,  and  throw  down 

As  nuptial  dowry  —  a  queen's  crown, 

The  only  feeling  which  possest, 

With  her  own  image,  my  fond  breast  — 

Who,  that  had  known  the  secret  thought 

Of  a  young  peasant's  bosom  then, 

Had  deem'd  him,  in  compassion,  aught 

But  one,  whom  fantasy  had  led 

Astray  from  reason  —  Among  men 

Ambition  is  chain'd  down  —  nor  fed 

(As  in  the  desert,  where  the  grand, 

The  wild,  the  beautiful,  conspire 

With  their  own  breath  to  fan  its  fire) 

With  thoughts  such  feeling  can  command; 

Uncheck'd  by  sarcasm,  and  scorn 

Of  those,  who  hardly  will  conceive 

XL  12-13  The  undying  hope  which  now  opprest 

A  spirit  ne'er  to  be  at  rest  MS. 
14  secret  \  silent   MS. 

17  led  |  thrown  MS. 

18  Astray  from  reason  \  Her  mantle  over  MS. 

19  Ambition  \  Lion  Ambition;  nor  fed  \  omit   MS, 
Insert  after: — 

And  crouches  to  a  'keepers  hand   MS. 

20  As  in  the  desert  \  Not  so  in  deserts   MS. 

21  beautifies  \  terrible  MS. 

22  its  |  his   MS. 

207 


NOTES 

That  any  should  become  "  great,"  born  (5) 
In  their  own  sphere  —  will  not  believe 
That  they  shall  stoop  in  life  to  one 
Whom  daily  they  are  wont  to  see 
Familiarly —  whom  Fortune's  sun 
Hath  ne'er  shone  dazzlingly  upon, 
Lowly  —  and  of  their  own  degree  — 

xn 

I  pictured  to  my  fancy's  eye 
Her  silent,  deep  astonishment, 
When,  a  few  fleeting  years  gone  by 
(For  short  the  time  my  high  hope  lent 
To  its  most  desperate  intent,) 
She  might  recall  in  him,  whom  Fame 
Had  gilded  with  a  conqueror's  name 
(With  glory  —  such  as  might  inspire 
Perforce,  a  passing  thought  of  one, 
Whom  she  had  deem'd  in  his  own  fire 
Wither'd  and  blasted;  who  had  gone 
A  traitor,  violate  of  the  truth 
So  plighted  in  his  early  youth,) 
Her  own  Alexis,  who  should  plight  (6) 
The  love  he  plighted  then  —  again, 
And  raise  his  infancy's  delight, 
The  bride  and  queen  of  Tamerlane.  — 

xni 

One  noon  of  a  bright  summer's  day 
I  pass'd  from  out  the  matted  bower 
Where  in  a  deep,  still  slumber  lay 
My  Ada.    In  that  peaceful  hour, 
A  silent  gaze  was  my  farewell. 
I  had  no  other  solace  —  then 
208 


NOTES 

To  awake  her,  and  a  falsehood  tell 
Of  a  feign'd  journey,  were  again 
To  trust  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
To  her  soft  thrilling  voice :   To  part 
Thus,  haply,  while  in  sleep  she  dream'd 
Of  long  delight,  nor  yet  had  deem'd 
Awake,  that  I  had  held  a  thought 
Of  parting,  were  with  madness  fraught ; 
I  knew  not  woman's  heart,  alas ! 
Tho'  loved,  and  loving — let  it  pass. — 

XIV 

I  went  from  out  the  matted  bower, 
And  hurried  madly  on  my  way: 
And  felt,  with  every  flying  hour, 
That  bore  me  from  my  home,  more  gay; 
There  is  of  earth  an  agony 
Which,  ideal,  still  may  be 
The  worst  ill  of  mortality. 
'T  is  bliss,  in  its  own  reality, 
Too  real,  to  his  breast  who  lives 
Not  within  himself  but  gives 
A  portion  of  his  willing  soul 
To  God,  and  to  the  great  whole  — 
To  him,  whose  loving  spirit  will  dwell 
With  Nature,  in  her  wild  paths;  tell 
Of  her  wondrous  ways,  and  telling  bless 
Her  overpowering  loveliness ! 
A  more  than  agony  to  him 
Whose  failing  sight  will  grow  dim 
With  its  own  living  gaze  upon 
That  loveliness  around :    the  sun  — 
The  blue  sky  —  the  misty  light 
Of  the  pale  cloud  therein,  whose  hue 
209 


NOTES 

Is  grace  to  its  heavenly  bed  of  blue ; 

Dim!  tho'  looking  on  all  bright! 

O  God !  when  the  thoughts  that  may  not  pass 

Will  burst  upon  him,  and  alas! 

For  the  flight  on  Earth  to  Fancy  given, 

There  are  no  words  —  unless  of  Heaven. 


xv 


Look  round  thee  now  on  Samarcand,  (7) 
Is  she  not  queen  of  earth?  her  pride 
Above  all  cities?  in  her  hand 
Their  destinies?  with  all  beside 
Of  glory,  which  the  world  hath  known? 
Stands  she  not  proudly  and  alone? 
And  who  her  sovereign?     Timur,  he  (8) 
Whom  the  astonish'd  earth  hath  seen, 
With  victory,  on  victory, 
Redoubling  age !  and  more,  I  ween, 
The  Zinghis'  yet  re-echoing  fame.  (°) 
And  now  what  has  he?  what!  a  name. 
The  sound  of  revelry  by  night 
Comes  o'er  me,  with  the  mingled  voice 
Of  many  with  a  breast  as  light, 
As  if  't  were  not  the  dying  hour 

XV.     6  proudly  \  nobly     MS. 

8  earth  hath  seen  \  people  saw     MS. 
9-11    Striding   o'er   empires   haughtily, 
A  diademed  outlaw, 

More  than  the  Zinghis  in  his  fame.     MS. 
12  what!  |  even     MS. 
16  the  dying  \  their  parting     MS. 


NOTES 


Of  one,  in  whom  they  did  rejoice- 
As  in  a  leader,  haply  —  Power 
Its  venom  secretly  imparts; 
Nothing  have  I  with  human  hearts. 


XVI 


When  Fortune  mark'd  me  for  her  own, 
And  my  proud  hopes  had  reach'd  a  throne 
(It  boots  me  not,  good  friar,  to  tell 
A  tale  the  world  but  knows  too  well, 
How  by  what  hidden  deeds  of  might, 
I  clamber'd  to  the  tottering  height,) 
I  still  was  young ;  and  well  I  ween 
My  spirit  what  it  e'er  had  been. 
My  eyes  were  still  on  pomp  and  power, 
My  wilder'd  heart  was  far  away 
In  valleys  of  the  wild  Taglay, 
In  mine  own  Ada's  matted  bower. 
I  dwelt  not  long  in  Samarcand 

Ere,  in  a  peasant's  lowly  guise, 

I  sought  my  long-abandon'd  land; 

By  sunset  did  its  mountains  rise 

In  dusky  grandeur  to  my  eyes: 

But  as  I  wander'd  on  the  way 

My  heart  sunk  with  the  sun's  ray. 

To  him,  who  still  would  gaze  upon 

The  glory  of  the  summer  sun, 

There  comes,  when  that  sun  will  from  him  part, 

A  sullen  hopelessness  of  heart. 

That  soul  will  hate  the  evening  mist 

So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 

17  Of  |  From     MS. 

£0  Nothing  have  I  \  And  I  have  naught     MS. 


NOTES 

To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 

To  those  whose  spirits  hearken)   [10]  as  one 

Who  in  a  dream  of  night  would  fly, 

But  cannot,  from  a  danger  nigh. 

What  though  the  moon  —  the  silvery  moon  — 

Shine  on  his  path,  in  her  high  noon ; 

Her  smile  is  chilly,  and  her  beam 

In  that  time  of  dreariness  will  seem 

As  the  portrait  of  one  after  death; 

A  likeness  taken  when  the  breath 

Of  young  life,  and  the  fire  o'  the  eye, 

Had  lately  been,  but  had  pass'd  by. 

'T  is  thus  when  the  lovely  summer  sun 

Of  our  boyhood,  his  course  hath  run: 

For  all  we  live  to  know  —  is  known ; 

And  all  we  seek  to  keep  —  hath  flown ; 

With  the  noonday  beauty,  which  is  all. 

Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall  — 

The  transient,  passionate  day-flower,  (n) 

Withering  at  the  evening  hour. 


XVII 


I  reach'd  my  home  —  my  home  no  more 
For  all  was  flown  that  made  it  so  — 
I  pass'd  from  out  its  mossy  door, 
In  vacant  idleness  of  woe. 
There  met  me  on  its  threshold  stone 
A  mountain  hunter,  I  had  known 
In  childhood,  but  he  knew  me  not. 
Something  he  spoke  of  the  old  cot : 
It  had  seen  better  days,  he  said; 
There  rose  a  fountain  once,  and  there 
Full  many  a  fair  flower  raised  its  head: 
But  she  who  rear'd  them  was  long  dead, 


NOTES 

And  in  such  follies  had  no  part, 

What  was  there  left  me  now?  despair  — 

A  kingdom  for  a  broken  —  heart. 

Readings  varying  from  1845,  in  1829,  1831 :  — 
3  deem  \  think     1831 

26  Insert  after :  - 

Despair,  the  fabled  vampire-bat, 
Hath  long  upon  my  bosom  sat, 
And  I  would  rave,  but  that  he  flings 
A  calm  from  his  unearthly  wings.     1831 

30  fierce  \  omit    1831 

40  Have  \  Hath   1831 

57  Was  giant-like  —  so  thou  my  wind     1829,  1831 

73  this  iron  heart  \  that  as  infinite    1831 

74  My  soul  —  so  was  the  weakness  in  it    1831 

Insert  after: — 

For  in  those  days  it  was  my  lot 
To  haunt  of  the  wide  world  a  spot 
The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less. 
So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 
Of  a  wild  lake  with  black  rock  bound, 
And  the  sultan  like  pines  that  tower'd  around! 
But  when  the  night  had  thrown  her  pall 
Upon  that  spot  as  upon  all, 
And  the  black  wind  murmur'd  by, 
In  a  dirge  of  melody; 
My  infant  spirit  would  awake 
To  the  terror  of  that  lone  lake. 
Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright  — 
But  a  tremulous  delight  — 
A  feeling  not  the  jewell'd  mine 
Could  ever  bribe  me  to  define, 
213 


NOTES 

Nor  love,  Ada !  tho'  it  were  thine. 
How  could  I  from  that  water  bring 
Solace  to  my  imagining? 
My  solitary  soul  —  how  make 
An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake? 

But  then  a  gentler,  calmer  spell 
Like  moonlight  on  my  spirit  fell, 
But  O !  I  have  no  words  to  tell     1831 

77  Nor  would  I  \  I  will  not    1831 

81  Thus  I  \  I  well    1831 

82  Some  page  \  Pages     1831 

83  Oh,  she  was  \  Was  she  not    1831 

106  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  \  lean  upon  her  gentle 

1831 

110  her  |  her's     1831 
112-115  omit     1831 

119  Its  joy  —  its  little  lot  \  Of  pleasure  or    1831 

120  That  was  new  pleasure  \  The  good,  the  bad     1831 
128-138  omit     1831 

151  on  her  bright  \  upon  her     1831 

152  to  become  \  fitted  for   1831 
164  his  |  its  1831 

166-177 

• 

Say,  holy  father,  breathes  there  yet 

A  rebel  or  a  Bajazet? 

How  now!  why  tremble,  man  of  gloom, 

As  if  my  words  were  the  Simoom ! 

Why  do  the  people  bow  the  knee, 

To  the  young  Tamerlane  —  to  me!     1831 

202  splendor  \  beauty     1831 

213-222 

214 


NOTES 


I   reached   my   home  —  what   home?    above 
My  home  —  my  hope  —  my  early  love, 
Lonely,  like  me,  the  desert  rose, 
Bow'd  down  with  its  own  glory  grows.     1831 

unpolluted  \  undefiled     1831 
Insert  after :  — 

If  my  peace  hath  flown  away 

In  a  night  —  or  in  a  day  - 

In  a  vision  —  or  in  none  — 

Is  it,  therefore,  the  less  gone? 

I  was  standing  'mid  the  roar 

Of   a   wind-beaten   shore, 

And  I  held  within  my  hand 

Some  particles  of  sand  — 

How  bright !  and  yet  to  creep 

Thro'  my  fingers  to  the  deep! 

My  early  hopes  ?  no  —  they 

Went  gloriously  away, 

Like  lightning  from  the  sky- 

Why  in  the  battle  did  not  I?     1831 

NOTES  BY  POE 

Note   1,  page  198. 
I  have  sent  for  thee,  holy  friar. 

OF  the  history  of  Tamerlane  little  is  known;  and 
with  that  little  I  have  taken  the  full  liberty  of  a  poet. 
-That  he  was  descended  from  the  family  of  Zinghis 
Khan  is  more  than  probable  —  but  he  is  vulgarly  sup 
posed  to  have  been  the  son  of  a  shepherd,  and  to  have 
raised  himself  to  the  throne  by  his  own  address.  He 

215 


NOTES 

died  in  the  year  1405,  in  the  time  of  Pope  Innocent 
VII. 

How  I  shall  account  for  giving  him  "  a  friar  "  as  a 
death-bed  confessor  —  I  cannot  exactly  determine.  He 
wanted  some  one  to  listen  to  his  tale  —  and  why  not  a 
friar?  It  does  not  pass  the  bounds  of  possibility  — 
quite  sufficient  for  my  purpose  —  and  I  have  at  least 
good  authority  on  my  side  for  such  innovations. 

NOTE  2,  page  200. 
The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed,  &c. 

The  mountains  of  Belur  Taglay  are  a  branch  of  the 
Imaus,  in  the  southern  part  of  Independent  Tartary. 
They  are  celebrated  for  the  singular  wildness  and  beauty 
of  their  valleys. 

NOTE  3,  page  203. 

No  purer  thought 
Dwell  in  a  seraph's  breast  than  thine. 

I  must  beg  the  reader's  pardon  for  making  Tamer 
lane,  a  Tartar  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speak  in  the 
same  language  as  a  Boston  gentleman  of  the  nine 
teenth;  but  of  the  Tartar  mythology  we  have  little  in 
formation. 

NOTE  4>,  page  204. 
Which  blazes  upon  Edis'  shrine. 

A  deity  presiding  over  virtuous  love,  upon  whose  im 
aginary  altar  a  sacred  fire  was  continually  blazing. 

NOTE  5,  page  208. 

—  who  hardly  will  conceive 
That  any  should  become  "  great"  born 
In  their  own  sphere  — 
216 


NOTES 

Although  Tamerlane  speaks  this,  it  is  not  the  less 
true.  It  is  a  matter  of  the  greatest  difficulty  to  make 
the  generality  of  mankind  believe  that  one  with  whom 
they  are  upon  terms  of  intimacy  shall  be  called,  in  the 
world,  a  "  great  man."  The  reason  is  evident.  There 
are  few  great  men.  Their  actions  are  consequently 
viewed  by  the  mass  of  the  people  through  the  medium 
of  distance.  The  prominent  parts  of  their  characters 
are  alone  noted ;  and  those  properties,  which  are  minute 
and  common  to  every  one,  not  being  observed,  seem  to 
have  no  connection  with  a  great  character. 

Who  ever  read  the  private  memorials,  correspond 
ence,  &c.,  which  have  become  so  common  in  our  time, 
without  wondering  that  "  great  men  "  should  act  and 
think  "  so  abnominably  "  ? 

NOTE  6,  page  208. 
Her  own  Alexis,  who  should  plight,  &c. 

That  Tamerlane  acquired  his  renown  under  a  feigned 
name  is  not  entirely  a  fiction. 

NOTE  7,  page  210. 
Look  round  thee  now  on  Samarcand, 

I  believe  it  was  after  the  battle  of  Angora  that 
Tamerlane  made  Samarcand  his  residence.  It  became 
for  a  time  the  seat  of  learning  and  the  arts. 

NOTE  8,  page  210. 
And  who  her  sovereign?     Timur,  &c. 
He  was  called  Timur  Bek  as  well  as  Tamerlane. 
NOTE  9,  page  210. 

The  Zinghis'  yet  re-echoing  fame. 
217 


NOTES 

The  conquests  of  Tamerlane  far  exceeded  those  of 
Zinghis  Khan.  He  boasted  to  have  two  thirds  of  the 
world  at  his  command. 

NOTE   10,  page  212. 

The  sound  of  the  coming  darkness   (known 
To  those  whose  spirits  hearken) 

I  have  often  fancied  that  I  could  distinctly  hear  the 
sound  of  the  darkness,  as  it  steals  over  the  horizon  — 
a  foolish  fancy,  perhaps,  but  not  more  unintelligible 
than  to  see  music  — 

"  The  mind  the  music  breathing  from  her  face." 

NOTE  11,  page  212. 
Let  life  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall. 

There  is  a  flower  (I  have  never  known  its  botanic 
name),  vulgarly  called  the  day-flower.  It  blooms  beau 
tifully  in  the  daylight,  but  withers  towards  evening, 
and  by  night  its  leaves  appear  totally  shrivelled  and 
dead.  I  have  forgotten,  however,  to  mention  in  the 
text,  that  it  lives  again  in  the  morning.  If  it  will  not 
flourish  in  Tartary,  I  must  be  forgiven  for  carrying 
it  thither. 

NOTES.  The  history  of  the  poem  is  given  in  the 
Memoir.  In  the  edition  of  1845  it  was  accompanied 
with  the  following  "  Advertisement :  This  poem  was 
printed  for  publication  in  Boston,  in  the  year  1827,  but 
suppressed  through  circumstances  of  a  private  nature." 
The  "  Early  Poems  "  in  the  same  edition  were  excused 
by  the  following  note :  "  Private  reasons  —  some  of 
which  have  reference  to  the  sin  of  plagiarism,  and 
others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first  poems  —  have 
induced  me  after  some  hesitation  to  republish  those, 
the  crude  compositions  of  my  earliest  boyhood.  They 


NOTES 

are  printed  verbatim  —  without  alteration  from  the 
original  edition  —  the  date  of  which  is  too  remote  to 
be  judiciously  acknowledged." 

TO  SCIENCE 

To  Science.  1829;  Atkinson's  Philadelphia  Casket, 
1830;  1831;  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  May, 
1836;  Graham's  Magazine,  June,  1841;  Phila 
delphia  Saturday  Museum,  March  4,  1843;  Broad 
way  Journal,  ii.  4;  1845. 

TEXT.     Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum." 

1  true  |  meet  1829;  P.  C.;  1831;  S.  L.  M. 

2  peering  \  piercing   P.  C. 

3  the  |  thy   P.  C. 

5  should  |  shall   P.  C. 
8  soared  \  soar   S.  L.  M. 

11  a  |  for  P.  C. 

12  The    gentle    Naiad    from    her    fountain    flood 

1829;  S.  L.  M.  her  \  the  P.  C. 

13  grass  \  wood   P.  C. 

14  summer  \  summer's  P.  C.  tamarind  tree  \  shrub 

bery  P.  C. ;  S.  L.  M. 

11-14  Hast  thou  not  spoilt  a  story  in  each  star? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood? 

The  elfin  from  the  grass  ?  —  the  dainty  fog, 

The   witch,   the   sprite,   the  goblin  —  where 

are  they?   G.  M. 

AL  AARAAF 

Al  Aaraaf.  1829,  1831,  1845;  lines  L  66-67,  70-79, 
82-101;  126-129;  II.  20-21,  24-27,  52-59, 
68-135 ;  Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum," 
March  4,  1843. 

219 


NOTES 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings: — 

1-15     Mysterious  star! 

Thou  wert  my  dream 
All  a  long  summer  night  — 
Be  now  my  theme! 
By  this  clear  stream, 
Of  thee  will  I  write ; 
Meantime  from  afar 
Bathe  me  in  light! 

Thy  world  has  not  the  dross  of  ours, 
Yet  all  the  beauty  —  all  the  flowers 
That  list  our  love,  or  deck  our  bowers 
In  dreamy  gardens,  where  do  lie 
Dreamy  maidens  all  the  day, 
While  the  silver  winds  of  Circassy 
On  violet  couches  faint  away. 

Little  —  oh!  little  dwells  in  thee 
Like  unto  what  on  Earth  we  see: 
Beauty's  eye  is  here  the  bluest 
In  the  falsest  and  untruest  — 
On  the  sweetest  air  doth  float 
The  most  sad  and  solemn  note  — 
If  with  thee  be  broken  hearts, 
Joy  so  peacefully  departs, 
That  its  echo  still  doth  dwell, 
Like  the  murmur  in  the  shell. 

Thou!  thy  truest  type  of  grief 
Is  the  gently  falling  leaf  — 
Thou!  thy  framing  is  so  holy 
Sorrow  is  not  melancholy.  1831 

220 


NOTES 

11  Oh  |  With     1829 

19  An  oasis  \  a  garden-spot     1829,  1831 

43  rear     1831 

95  rafomit   1831 
128  All     Here     1829,  1831 
Part  II.     33  peered  \  ventured     1829 

99  lead  \  hang     1829,  1831 
197  the  orb  of  Earth  \  one  constant  star 

1829,  1831 
213  he  |  it     1829,  1831 

The  variations  of  the  "  Saturday  Museum  "  show  a 
later  revision  than  the  text  represents;  but  it  has  not 
been  thought  desirable  to  embody  them  in  the  text,  as 
Poe  himself  did  not  do  so  on  his  last  publication  of  it. 
They  are  as  follows :  — 

I.  88  Which  |  That 

127  merest      veriest 

128  All  |  Here 

11.  53  cheeks  were  \  cheek  was 

56  that  |  this 

58  fairy  \  brilliant 

91  wings 

92  Each  .  .  .  thing  \  All  .  .  .  things 
94  would  |  will 

117  a  deep  dreamy 

Some  lines  also  are  transposed  from  one  place  to 
another  in  the  passages  from  II.  20-59. 

NOTES  BY  POE 

p.  108.  Al  Aaraaf.  —  A  star  was  discovered  by 
Tycho  Brahe,  which  appeared  suddenly  in  the  heavens ; 

221 


NOTES 

attained,  in  a  few  days,  a  brilliancy  surpassing  that  of 
Jupiter;  then  as  suddenly  disappeared,  and  has  never 
been  seen  since. 

p.  109.  Capo  Deucato.  —  On  Santa  Maria  —  olim 
Deucadia  OF  HER  WHO  loved.  Sappho. 

Flower  of  Trebizond.  —  This  flower  is  much  noticed 
by  Lewenhoeck  and  Tournefort.  The  bee  feeding  upon 
its  blossom  becomes  intoxicated. 

p.  110.  Clytia.  —  Clytia,  —  the  Chrysanthemum 
Peruvianum,  or,  to  employ  a  better-known  term,  the 
turnsol,  —  which  turns  continually  toward  the  sun, 
covers  itself,  like  Peru,  the  country  from  which  it 
comes,  with  dewy  clouds  which  cool  and  refresh  its 
flowers  during  the  most  violent  heat  of  the  day.  — 
B.  DE  ST.  PIERRE. 

And  that  aspiring  flower.  —  There  is  cultivated,  in 
the  king's  garden  at  Paris,  a  species  of  serpentine 
aloes  without  prickles,  whose  large  and  beautiful 
flower  exhales  a  strong  odor  of  the  vanilla,  during 
the  time  of  its  expansion,  which  is  very  short.  It 
does  not  blow  till  toward  the  month  of  July  —  you 
then  perceive  it  gradually  open  its  petals  —  expand 
them  —  fade  and  die.  —  ST.  PIERRE. 

Valisnerian  lotus.  —  There  is  found,  in  the  Rhone, 
a  beautiful  lily  of  the  Valisnerian  kind.  Its  stem  will 
stretch  to  the  length  of  three  or  four  feet,  thus  pre 
serving  its  head  above  water  in  the  swellings  of  the 
river. 

And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume.  —  The  Hya 
cinth. 

Indian  Cupid.  —  It  is  a  fiction  of  the  Indians,  that 
Cupid  was  first  seen  floating  in  one  of  these  down  the 
river  Ganges,  and  that  he  still  loves  the  cradle  of  his 
childhood. 

222 


NOTES 

.  —  And  golden  vials  full  of  odors  which  are 
the  prayers  of  the  saints.  —  Rev.  St.  John. 

p.  111.  A  model.  —  The  Humanitarians  held  that 
God  was  to  be  understood  as  having  really  a  human 
form.  —  Vide  CLARKE'S  Sermons,  vol.  i.  page  26,  fol. 
edit. 

The  drift  of  Milton's  argument  leads  him  to  employ 
language  which  would  appear,  at  first  sight,  to  verge 
upon  their  doctrine;  but  it  will  be  seen  immediately 
that  he  guards  himself  against  the  charge  of  having 
adopted  one  of  the  most  ignorant  errors  of  the  dark 
ages  of  the  Church.  —  DR.  SUMNER'S  Notes  on  Mil- 
ton's  Christian  Doctrine. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  the 
contrary,  could  never  have  been  very  general.  Andeus, 
a  Syrian  of  Mesopotamia,  was  condemned  for  the 
opinion  as  heretical.  He  lived  in  the  beginning  of 
the  fourth  century.  His  disciples  were  called  Anthro- 
pomorphites.  —  Vide  Du  PIN. 

Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines: 

Dicite  sacrorum  praesides  nemorum  Deas,  &c. 
Quis  ille  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  finxit  humanum  genus? 
Eternus,  incorruptus,  aequaevus  polo, 
Unusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei. 

And  afterward :  — 

Non  cui  profundum  Cascitas  lumen  dedit 
Dircaeus  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  sinu,  &c. 

Fantasy.     Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskinde 
Der  Phantasie.  —  GOETHE. 
223 


NOTES 

p.  112.     Sightless.  —  Too  small  to  be  seen. —  LEGGE. 

Fireflies.  —  I  have  often  noticed  a  peculiar  move 
ment  of  the  fire-flies,  —  they  will  collect  in  a  body  and 
fly  off,  from  a  common  centre,  into  innumerable  radii. 

p.  113.  Therascean. —  Therassea,  or  Therasea,  the 
island  mentioned  by  Seneca,  which,  in  a  moment,  arose 
from  the  sea  to  the  eyes  of  astonished  mariners. 

Of  molten  stars. 

Some  star  which,  from  the  ruin'd  roof 
Of  shak'd  Olympus,  by  mischance  did  fall.  —  MILTON. 

p.  114.  Persepolis.  —  Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Perse- 
polis,  says :  "  Je  connois  bien  1'admiration  qu'inspirent 
ces  ruines  —  mais  un  palais  erige  au  pied  d'une  chaine 
des  rochers  sterils  —  peut  il  etre  un  chef-d'oeuvre  des 
arts?" 

Gomorrah.  —  "Oh!  the  wave"  —  Ula  Deguisi  is 
the  Turkish  appellation;  but,  on  its  own  shores,  it  is 
called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah.  There  were  un 
doubtedly  more  than  two  cities  engulfed  in  the  "  dead 
sea."  In  the  valley  of  Siddim  were  five,  —  Adrah, 
Zeboin,  Zoar,  Sodom,  and  Gomorrah.  Stephen  of  By 
zantium  mentions  eight,  and  Strabo  thirteen  (en 
gulfed),  —  but  the  last  is  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St. 
Saba,  Nau,  Mundrell,  Troilo,  D'Arvieux],  that  after 
an  excessive  drought,  the  vestiges  of  columns,  walls, 
etc.,  are  seen  dbove  the  surface.  At  any  season,  sucli 
remains  may  be  discovered  by  looking  down  into  the 
transparent  lake,  and  at  such  distances  as  would  argue 
the  existence  of  many  settlements  in  the  space  now 
usurped  by  the  "  Asphaltites." 

Eyraco.  —  Chaldea. 

And  sees   the  darkness.  —  I  have  often   thought  I 


224 


NOTES 

could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of  the  darkness  as  it 
stole  over  the  horizon. 

Young  flowers.  —  Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  char- 
actery.  —  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

p.  115.  The  moonbeam.  —  In  Scripture  is  this  pas 
sage  —  "  The  sun  shall  not  harm  thee  by  day,  nor  the 
moon  by  night."  It  is  perhaps  not  generally  known 
that  the  moon,  in  Egypt,  has  the  effect  of  producing 
blindness  to  those  who  sleep  with  the  face  exposed  to 
its  rays,  to  which  circumstance  the  passage  evidently 
alludes. 

p.  116.  Albatross.  —  The  Albatross  is  said  to  sleep 
on  the  wing. 

The  murmur  that  springs.  —  I  met  with  this  idea  in 
an  old  English  tale,  which  I  am  now  unable  to  obtain, 
and  quote  from  memory,  —  "  The  verie  essence  and,  as 
it  were,  springe-heade  and  origine  of  all  musiche  is  the 
verie  pleasaunte  sounde  which  the  trees  of  the  forest 
do  make  when  they  growe." 

p.  117.  Have  slept  with  the  bee.  —  The  wild  bee 
will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moonlight. 

The  rhyme  in  this  verse,  as  in  one  about  sixty  lines 
before,  has  an  appearance  of  affectation.  It  is,  how 
ever,  imitated  from  Sir  W.  Scott,  or  rather  from  Claud 
Halcro  —  in  whose  mouth  I  admired  its  effect :  — 

Oh!  were  there  an  island, 

Tho'  ever  so  wild 
Where  woman  might  smile,  and 

No  man  be  beguil'd,  etc. 

p.  118.  Apart  from  Heaven9 s  Eternity.  —  With  the 
Arabians  there  is  a  medium  between  Heaven  and  Hell, 
where  men  suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  attain 
that  tranquil  and  even  happiness  which  they  suppose 
to  be  characteristic  of  heavenly  enjoyment. 


OOK 


NOTES 

Un  no  rompido  sueno  — 

Un  dia  puro  —  allegre  —  libre 

Quiera  —  , 

Libre  de  amor  —  de  zelo  — 

De  odio  —  de  esperanza  —  de  rezelo. 

Luis  PONCE  DE  LEON. 

Sorrow  is  not  excluded  from  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  but  it  is 
that  sorrow  which  the  living  love  to  cherish  for  the 
dead,  and  which,  in  some  minds,  resembles  the  delirium 
of  opium.  The  passionate  excitement  of  Love  and  the 
buoyancy  of  spirit  attendant  upon  intoxication  are  its 
less  holy  pleasures,  —  the  price  of  which,  to  those  souls 
who  make  choice  of  "  Al  Aaraaf  "  as  their  residence 
after  life,  is  final  death  and  annihilation. 

Tears,  of  perfect  moan. 

There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon.  —  MILTON. 

p.  119.  Parthenon.  —  It  was  entire  in  1687  —  the 
most  elevated  spot  in  Athens. 

Than  even  thy  glowing  bosom. 

Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of 
Love.  —  MARLOWE. 

Pennoned.  —  Pennon  —  for  pinion.  —  MILTON. 

NOTES.  The  notes  by  Poe  are  partly  from  Moore's 
"Lalla  Rookh,"  Chateaubriand's  "  Itineraire,"  and 
other  authorities  easily  traced.  In  the  edition  of  1829 
the  notes  are  worded,  in  a  few  instances,  differently. 

226 


NOTES 

"THE     HAPPIEST     DAY  — THE     HAPPIEST 
HOUR" 

"  The  Happiest  Day  —  The  Happiest  Hour."     1827. 
TEXT.     1827. 

STANZAS 

«/w    Youth   Have   I   Known    One    With    Whom   the 

Earth."     1827. 
TEXT.     1827. 

EVENING  STAR 

Evening  Star.    1827. 
TEXT.     1827. 

DREAMS 

Dreams.     1827. 

TEXT.  1827.  Other  readings,  from  the  Wilmer  MS., 
in  this  instance  contemporary,  but  not  auto 
graphic. 

5  cold  |  dull   MS. 

6  must  |  shall   MS. 

7  still  upon  the  lovely  \  ever  on  the  chilly  MS. 

14  dreams  of  living  \  dreary  fields  of    MS. 

15  loveliness  have  left  my  very  \  left  unheed- 

ingly  my   MS. 

THE  LAKE.    TO  - 

The  Lake:     To .     1827,  1829,  1831   (in  Tamer 
lane),   1845;   Missionary   Memorial,   1846    (pub 
lished,  1845). 
TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 

1  spring  of  youth  \  youth's  spring  M.  M. 
mystic  \  ghastly  M.  M. 
227 


NOTES 

Murmuring  In  \  In  a  dirge-like  M.  M. 
the  |  that  M.  M. 
poisonous  |  poisoned  M.  M. 
gulf  |  depth  M.  M. 

The  first  version  is  1827,  as  follows,  other  early  read 
ings,  including  those  of  the  Wilmer  MS.,  being  noted 
below :  — 

THE  LAKE 

IN  youth's  spring  it  was  my  lot 

To  haunt  of  the  wide  earth  a  spot 

The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less ; 

So  lovely  was  the  loneliness 

Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 

And  the  tall  pines  that  tower'd  around. 

But  when  the  night  had  thrown  her  pall 

Upon  that  spot  —  as  upon  all, 

And  the  wind  would  pass  me  by 

In  its  stilly  melody, 

My  infant  spirit  would  awake 

To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 

Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright  — 

But  a  tremulous  delight, 

And  a  feeling  undefined, 

Springing  from  a  darken'd  mind. 

9  wind  would  pass  me  by  \  black  wind  murmured  bu 

1829 

10  In  its  stilly  |  in  a  stilly  MS.;  in  a  dirge  of     1829 

11  infant  \  boyish     MS. 

15-16  A  feeling  not  the  jewell'd  mine 

Should  ever  bribe  me  to  define  — 
Nor  Love  —  although  the  Love  be  thine     1829 
228 


NOTES 

Death  was  in  that  poison'd  wave 
And  in  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 
For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 
To  his  dark  imagining; 
Whose  wildering  thought  could  even  make 
An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 
Compare  also  "  Tamerlane,"  1831,  infra,  pp. 

SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD 

Spirits  of  the  Dead,  1829;  "Burton's  Gentleman's 
Magazine,"  July,  1839;  |  Visit  of  the  Dead,  1827. 

TEXT.  "  Burton's  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  except  as 
noted.  Other  readings,  including  those  of  the  Wil- 
mer  MS.,  in  this  instance  a  contemporary,  but  not 
autographic  copy :  — 

10  Shall  over  \  shall  then  o'er     MS. 

18  Insert  after :  - 

But  't  will  leave  thee  as  each  star 
WTith  the  dewdrop  flies  afar.     MS. 

19  slialt  |  canst     MS. 
21-22  transpose     MS. 

22  dewdrops  \  dewdrop     MS.;  1829;  B.  G.  M. 
The  first  version  is  1827,  as  follows :  - 

VISIT  OF  THE  DEAD 

THY  soul  shall  find  itself  alone  — 

Alone  of  all  on  earth  —  unknown 

The  cause  —  but  none  are  near  to  pry 

20  dark  \  lone     MS.     1829 

21  Whose  solitary  soul  could  make  MS.   1829 

229 


NOTES 

Into  thine  hour  of  secrecy. 

Be  silent  in  that  solitude, 

Which  is  not  loneliness  —  for  then 

The  spirits  of  the  dead,  who  stood 

In  life  before  thee,  are  again 

In  death  around  thee,  and  their  will 

Shall  then  o'ershadow  thee  —  be  still: 

For  the  night,  tho'  clear,  shall  frown; 

And  the  stars  shall  look  not  down 

From  their  thrones,  in  the  dark  heaven, 

With  light  like  Hope  to  mortals  given, 

But  their  red  orbs,  without  beam, 

To  thy  withering  heart  shall  seem 

As  a  burning,  and  a  fever 

Which  would  cling  to  thee  forever. 

But  't  will  leave  thee,  as  each  star 

In  the  morning  light  afar 

Will  fly   thee  —  and  vanish : 

—  But  its  thought  thou  canst  not  banish. 

The  breath  of  God  will  be  still ; 

And  the  mist  upon  the  hill 

By  that  summer  breeze  unbroken 

Shall  charm  thee  —  as  a  token, 

And  a  symbol  which  shall  be 

Secrecy  in  thee. 

A  DREAM  WITHIN  A  DREAM 

A  Dream  within  a  Dream.    Flag  of  our  Union,  March 

31,    1849.    |    Imitation,    1827;    To ,    1829; 

Tamerlane,  1831. 

TEXT.    Flag  of  our  Union.     Other  readings :  — 

The  first  version  of  these  lines  is  1827,  as  follows: 

230 


NOTES 

IMITATION 

A  DARK  unfathom'd  tide 

Of  interminable  pride  — 

A  mystery,  and  a  dream, 

Should  my  early  life  seem; 

I  say  that  dream  was  fraught 

With  a  wild,  and  waking  thought 

Of  beings  that  have  been, 

Which  my  spirit  hath  not  seen, 

Had  I  let  them  pass  me  by, 

With  a  dreaming  eye! 

Let  none  of  earth  inherit 

That  vision  on  my  spirit; 

Those  thoughts  I  would  control, 

As  a  spell  upon  his  soul: 

For   that   bright  hope   at   last 

And  that  light  time  have  past, 

And  my  world  arrest  hath  gone 

With  a  sigh  as  it  pass'd  on: 

I  care  not  tho'  it  perish 

With  a  thought  I  then  did  cherish. 

This  poem  was  revised  in  1829,  as  follows,  the  varia 
tions  of  the  Wilmer  MS.  being  noted  below :  — 

TO 


1 

SHOULD  my  early  life  seem 

[As  well  it  might]  a  dream  — 

Yet  I  build  no  faith  upon 

The  King  Napoleon  — 

I  look  not  up  afar 

To  my  destiny  in  a  star: 


I.     6  To     For     MS. 


NOTES 


In  parting  from  you  now 
Thus  much  I  will  avow  — 
There  are  beings,  and  have  been 
Whom  my  spirit  had  not  seen 
Had  I  let  them  pass  me  by 
With  a  dreaming  eye  — 
If  my  peace  hath  fled  away 
In  a  night  —  or  in  a  day  — 
In  a  vision  —  or  in  none  — 
Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone? 


I  am  standing  'mid  the  roar 
Of  a  weather-beaten  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Some  particles  of  sand  — 
How  few!  and  how  they  creep 
Thro'  my  fingers  to  the  deep! 
My  early  hopes?  no  —  they 
Went  gloriously  away, 
Like  lightning  from  the  sky 
At  once  —  and  so  will  I. 

So  young !  ah !  no  —  not  now  — 
Thou  hast  not  seen  my  brow, 
But  they  tell  thee  I  am  proud  — 
They  lie  —  they  lie  aloud  - 
My  bosom  beats  with  shame 
At  the  paltriness  of  name 
With  which  they  dare  combine 
A  feeling  such  as  mine  — 


II.  10  therefore  \  omit     MS. 


NOTES 

Nor  Stoic?     I  am  not: 
In  the  terror  of  my  lot 
I  laugh  to  think  how  poor 
That  pleasure  "  to  endure !  " 
What!  shade  of  Zeus!  — I! 
Endure !  —  no  —  no  —  defy. 

The  lines  13-27,  reappear  revised  in  "  Tamerlane," 
1831,  infra,  p.  215. 

SONG 

Song     (I  saw  thee  on  thy  bridal  day).     1827,  1829, 
1845;  "  Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  11. 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings,  including  those  of  the 
Winner  MS. :  - 

I.  1  tliy  |  the  1827 
II.  2  Of  young  passion  -free   1827 

3  aching  \  chained   1827;  fetter'd   1829 

4  could  |  might   1827 
1-4  omit,  MS. 

III.  1  perhaps  \  I  ween   1827 

TO  THE  RIVER 


To    the   River .      1829;     "Burton's    Gentleman's 

Magazine,"  August,  1839;  Philadelphia  "Satur 
day  Museum,"  March  4,  1843;  1845;  "Broadway 
Journal,"  ii.  9. 

TEXT.       Philadelphia    "  Saturday    Museum."       Other 
readings,  including  those  of  the  Wilmer  MS. :  — 

I.  2  crystal  wandering  \  labyrinth-like    MS. 
1829;  B.  G.  M. 
233 


NOTES 

II.  4  Her  worshipper  \  Tliy  pretty  self   MS. 
5  His  |  my  MS.   1829;  B.  G.  M.;  B.  J. 

7  His  |  The   MS.     1829 ;  B.  G.  M. ;  B.  J. ; 
deeply  \  lightly   MS. 

8  of  her  soul-searching    \    The  scrutiny  of 

her  MS.    1829 ;  B.  G.  M. 


TO 


To (The  bowers  whereat  in  dreams  I  saw).    1829, 

1845 ;  "  Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  11. 
TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings :  — 

III.  3.  The  |  omit    1829. 

4  baubles  \  trifles    1829. 

A  DREAM 

A  Dream.    1829,  1845 ;  "Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  6  ]  no 

title,  1827. 

TEXT,  1845.     Other  readings :  — 
I.  Insert  before : 

A  wildr'd  being  from  my  birth, 
My  spirit  spurn'd  control, 
But  now,  abroad  on  the  wide  earth,          1827. 
Where  wanderest  thou,  my  soul? 
II.  1  Ah  |  And   1827,  1829 
IV.  1  Storm  and  \  misty   1827 

2  Trembled  from  \  dimly  shone   1827 

ROMANCE 

Romance.     Philadelphia  "  Saturday  Museum,"  March 
4,  1843;  1845;  "Broadway  Journal,"  ii.  8  |  Pref- 
ance,  1829;  Introduction,  1831. 
234 


NOTES 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 

12  Heavens    B.  J. 

14  /  scarcely  have  had  time  for  cares   S.  M. 
The  version  of  1831  is  as  follows,  earlier  readings  of 
1829  being  noted  below:  - 

INTRODUCTION 

ROMANCE,  who  loves  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 

To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been  —  a  most  familiar  bird  — 

Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say, — 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
While  in  the  wild-wood  I  did  lie 
A  child  —  with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Succeeding  years,  too  wild  for  song, 
Then  roll'd  like  tropic  storms  along, 
Where,  tho'  the  garish  lights  that  fly, 
Dying  along  the  troubled  sky 
Lay  bare,  thro'  vistas  thunder-riven, 
The  blackness  of  the  general  Heaven, 
That  very  blackness  yet  doth  fling 
Light  on  the  lightning's  silver  wing. 

For,  being  an  idle  boy  lang  syne, 
Who  read  Anacreon,  and  drank  wine, 
I  early  found  Anacreon  rhymes 
Were  almost  passionate  sometimes  — 
And  by  strange  alchemy  of  brain 

11-34  omit    1829 

235 


NOTES 

*'  - 

His  pleasures  always  turn'd  to  pain  — 
3  His  naivete  to  wild  desire  — 
His  wit  to  love  —  his  wine  to  fire  — 
And  so,  being  young  and  dipt  in  folly 
I  fell  in  love  with  melancholy, 
And  used  to  throw  my  earthly  rest 
And  quiet  all  away  in  jest  — 
I  could  not  love  except  where  Death 
Was  mingling  his  with  Beauty's  breath  — 
Or  Hymen,  Time,  and  Destiny 
Were  stalking  between  her  and  me. 

O,  then  the  eternal  Condor  years, 
So  shook  the  very  Heavens  on  high, 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder'd  by; 
I  had  no  time  for  idle  cares, 
Thro'  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky! 
Or  if  an  hour  with  calmer  wing 
Its  down  did  on  my  spirit  fling, 
That  little  hour  with  lyre  and  rhyme 
To  while  away  —  forbidden  thing ! 
My  heart  half  fear'd  to  be  a  crime 
Unless  it  trembled  with  the  string. 

35  0,  then  the  \  Of  late   1829. 

36  shook  the  ^ery  Heavens  \  shake  the  very  air   1829 
31  thunder' d  \  thunder    1829. 

38  I  hardly  have  had  time  for  cares   1829. 

40  Or  if  .  .  .  wing  \  And  when  .  .  .  wings    1829. 

41  did  07i  ...  fling  \  upon  .  .  .  flings    1829. 

43  thing  \  things    1829. 

44  half-feared  \   would  feel    1829. 

45  Unless  it  trembled  .  .  .  string  \  Did  it  not  tremble 

.  .  .  strings    1829. 

236 


NOTES 

But  now  my  soul  hath  too  much  room  — 
Gone  are  the  glory  and  the  gloom  — 
The  black  hath  mellow'd  into  grey, 
And  all  the  fires  are  fading  away. 

My  draught  of  passion  hath  been  deep  — 
I  revell'd,  and  I  now  would  sleep  — 
And  after-drunkenness  of  soul 
Succeeds  the  glories  of  the  bowl  — 
And  idle  longing  night  and  day 
To  dream  my  very  life  away. 

But  dreams  —  of  those  who  dream  as  I, 
Aspiringly,  are  damned,  and  die: 
Yet  should  I  swear  I  mean  alone, 
By  notes  so  very  shrilly  blown, 
To  break  upon  Time's  monotone, 
While  yet  my  vapid  joy  and  grief 
Are  tintless  of  the  yellow  leaf  — 
Why  not  an  imp  the  graybeard  hath 
iWill  shake  his  shadow  in  my  path  — 
And  even  the  graybeard  will  o'erlook 
Connivingly  my  dreaming  book. 

FAIRY-LAND 

Fairy-land.  1829,  1831,  1845 ;  «  Burton's  Gentleman's 
Magazine,"  August,  1839;  "Broadway  Journal," 
ii.  13. 

TEXT.     1845.     Other  readings:  — 

The  version  of  1831  is  as  follows,  other  early  read 
ings  being  noted  below :  — 

46-66  omit   1829. 

337 


NOTES 
FAIRY-LAND 

Sit  down  beside  me,  Isabel, 

Here,  dearest,  where  the  moonbeam  fell 

Just  now  so  fairy-like  and  well. 

Now  thou  art  dress'd  for  paradise ! 

I  am  star-stricken  with  thine  eyes ! 

My  soul  is  lolling  on  thy  sighs! 

Thy  hair  is  lifted  by  the  moon 

Like  flowers  by  the  low  breath  of  June! 

Sit  down,  sit  down  —  how  came  we  here? 

Or  is  it  all  but  a  dream,  my  dear? 

You  know  that  most  enormous  flower  — 

That  rose  —  that  what  d  'ye  ye  call  it  —  that  hung 

Up  like  a  dog-star  in  this  bower  — 

To-day  (the  wind  blew,  and)  it  swung 

So  impudently  in  my  face, 

So  like  a  thing  alive  you  know, 

I  tore  it  from  its  pride  of  place 

And  shook  it  into  pieces  —  so 

Be  all  ingratitude  requited. 

The  winds  ran  off  with  it  delighted, 

And,  thro'  the  opening  left,  as  soon 

As  she  threw  off  her  cloak,  yon  moon 

Has  sent  a  ray  down  with  a  tune. 

And  this  ray  is  a  fairy  ray  — 

Did  you  not  say  so,  Isabel? 

How  fantastically  it  fell 

With  a  spiral  twist  and  a  swell, 

And  over  the  wet  grass  rippled  away 

With  a  tinkling  like  a  bell ! 

1-40  omit  1829,  B.  G.  M.  1845 ;  B.  J.  ii.  13. 
238 


NOTES 

In  my  own  country  all  the  way 

We  can  discover  a  moon  ray 

Which  thro'  some  tatter'd  curtain  pries 

Into  the  darkness  of  a  room, 

Is  by  (the  very  source  of  gloom) 

The  motes,  and  dust,  and  flies, 

On  which  it  trembles  and  lies 

Like  joy  upon  sorrow! 

O,  when  will  come  the  morrow? 

Isabel,  do  you  not  fear 

The  night  and  the  wonders  here? 

Dim  vales!  and  shadowy  floods! 
And  cloudy-looking  woods 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over! 

Huge  moons  —  see !  wax  and  wane  — 

Again  —  again  —  again. 

Every  moment  of  the  night  — 

Forever  changing  places ! 

How  they  put  out  the  starlight 

With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces! 

Lo !  one  is  coming  down 
With  its  centre  on  the  crown 

45  see  \  there  1829 ;  B.  G.  M. 
49  How  |  And  1829 ;  B.  G.  M. 
51  About  twelve  by  the  moon-dial 

One,  more  filmy  than  the  rest 

[A  sort  which,  upon  trial, 

They  have  found  to  be  the  best] 

Comes   down  —  still  down  —  and  down    1829;  B, 
G.  M. 


NOTES 

Of  a  mountain's  eminence! 

Down  —  still  down  —  and  down  — 

Now  deep  shall  be  —  O  deep ! 

The  passion  of  our  sleep! 

For  that  wide  circumference 

In  easy  drapery  falls 

Drowsily  over  halls  — 

Over  ruin'd  walls  — 

(Over  waterfalls!) 

O'er  the  strange  woods  —  o'er  the  sea  — 

Alas!  over  the  sea! 

ALONE 

Alone.     "  Scribner's  Magazine,"  September,  1875. 

TEXT.     "  Scribner's  Magazine." 

NOTES.  This  poem,  on  its  publication,  was  dated,  not 
in  Poe's  hand,  "Baltimore,  March  17,  1829." 
The  words  appear  to  be  unauthorized. 

G.  E.  W. 

54-63  While  its  wide  circumference 
In  easy  drapery  falls 
Over  hamlets,  and  rich  halls 
Wherever  they  may  be  — 
O'er  the  strange  woods  —  o'er  the  sea  — 
Over  spirits  on  the  wing 
Over  every  drowsy  thing  — 
And  buries  them  up  quite 
In  a  labyrinth  of  light  — 

And  then,  how  deep!    O!    deep! 
Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep! 
In  the  morning  they  arise, 
And  their  moony  covering 
240 


NOTES 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies, 
With  the  tempests  as  they  toss, 
1  Like  —  almost  anything  — 
Or  a  yellow  Albatross. 

They  use  that  moon  no  more 
For  the  same  end  as  before  — 
Videlicet  a  tent  — 
Which  I  think  extravagant: 
Its  atomies,  however, 
Into  a  shower  dissever, 
Of  which  those  butterflies, 
Of  Earth,  who  seek  the  skies, 
And  so  come  down  again 
[The  unbelieving  things!] 
Have  brought  a  specimen 
Upon  their  quivering  wings. 

1829;  B.  G.  M. 

1  Plagiarism  —  see    the    works    of    Thomas    Moore 
passim  —  [Poe's  note]. 


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